Sometimes Sally Howe attempts to take over my blog: just look at the title of that last post - pure Sally Howe. On the other hand, if you are a mid-list author when the midlist has been abolished (as I read recently in the literary pages) you have to be shameless and pushy and good at blowing your own trumpet, however small that trumpet.
Yesterday was a perfect gardening day. It was bright, dry, not too cold, and it was still. This last is the clincher, as we live on the edge of the village up an incline with nothing to protect us from the prevailing westerlies. With the autumn colours, particularly those of our copper beeches, and the knowledge that the days are getting shorter, I am always tempted to stay outside until I am so tired I have to crawl back into the house.
Yesterday I didn’t. I called on some lovely neighbours, also outdoor types, who said they don’t like November and December. They prefer the winter months after Christmas, because the days are getting longer. I like it now – there’s no colour in February.
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