We planted three little clumps of thrift in our front rock garden last year, providing them with a nice little gravel patch and conditioning the soil underneath with coarse sand to keep them happy. And happy they were, rewarding us almost instantly with their bright pink flowers and putting on a good deal of extra bulk.
When autumn came and they dropped back we trimmed off the dead flower heads and wished them a happy winter’s sleep.
Winter was beastly severe here for some weeks, and many plants succumbed to the prolonged freeze. I was very sad to see that our thrift plants had changed, the foliage going darker and darker, and it looked to me as if we’d have to hunt around for replacements.
However, spring came, things heated up and lo! the thrift plants produced new flower buds. Shortly afterwards, and it’s worth another lo!, the buds burst into bloom. I’ve always said that thrift pays.
“I seem to have missed Easter this year,” I said as we settled to coffee and hot cross buns in Sainsbury’s yesterday.
“Does it matter?”
“Not especially. I can always catch it in the repeats.”
Hot cross buns and coffee
Yesterday and the day before were a bit of a trial, with the completely still air and hot sun leading to a breath-diminishing smog. Not like the old London smogs, where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, but a low-level pollution that’s close to invisible. Not good for asthmatics and old crocks.
Today, though, we’ve had a do as little as possible day, staying indoors for the most part, with the kitchen door open on the shady side. Much more bearable. I’m not complaining. The bitter cold days of winter are not so far away that I can’t remember yearning for the sunshine.
There’s something special about lazy summer days, when the evenings and early mornings are so delightful to the senses. I like lazy days.
Graham does, too, though he can’t sit quietly doing nothing the way I can. He still needs to be doing stuff. And I do so enjoy watching.
Watching Graham ironing shirts
The only time I stirred myself today, so far, was to pick up my Blackberry and tweet the above photo. More as an experiment than anything else.
We were sitting at a table in IKEA this morning, letting the 99p breakfast settle before we started shopping. Graham noticed me fiddling with my shiny new wedding ring.
“Is it uncomfortable?” he asked, all anxious-like.
“No. Not at all.”
“Why do you keep playing with it, then?”
“Hadn’t realised that I was.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose I’m enjoying the feeling of being spliced is all.”
“More soppy than silly.”
We’re having a rather grand spell of sunny weather. Makes me feel really good, and takes my mind off my poor old legs. Except when I attempt a bit of walking, that is.
I have a referral with a vein specialist coming up some time, hopefully soon, but for the time being I’m having to restrict my walking to absolute essentials. And standing about, not at all.
Ah well. Could be worse.
Graham is recovering fast now and if I were not a gravely cautious man on these matters, I’d suggest he’s teetering on the edge of a period of remission. As it is, I’ll confine myself to saying he’s looking a lot better than he did a few weeks back.