I sit outside in the morning sun. Warm morning sun for winter. I sit on the edge of the front verandah, doing my knitting.
Sometimes I sit with my feet in the garden bed, as above. Sometimes I sit with my back to the verandah post and my feet up on the verandah. Either way, I struggle to inelegantly get back up on my feet - can only be done from a crawling position.
I sit like this, because the chairs are already taken.
In front of me and slightly to the left is DA Anne Boleyn. With one large winter bloom -
dangling downwards on the spindliest stem you'd ever see. No, actually it's not the spindliest, every one of my roses is spindly. I hope it's because not many were given a haircut last year and are waiting for a good one this year.
I look at Anne Boleyn in disgust.
The violets are flowering along the path.
I resolve to dig out the standard Icebergs in the front garden and throw them on the next bonfire.
I have completely fallen out of love with my garden.