Now that the weather is warm, I’m able to do my work out of doors. We have a summer house at the end of our garden which looks out on to the lawn, and I’ve purloined this as a kind of home-study space. I’ve set up a little desk and put a few bright books in a corner. When it’s nice you can fling open both the doors and enjoy the breezy warmth.

They say that sunshine follows rain, and this last fortnight can offer no better example of this. The rain had begun to seem like a permanent reality; like a hole in the wall you never get round to filling in until you just get used to it being like that, and don’t notice anymore, until someone comes round and points it out.

But now summer has bloomed spectacularly. All the colours of the garden, which, until so recently looked as if they were going to be washed away like chalk on a pavement, have now popped up like jewel-bright beads and blossoming confetti. You feel at every angle as if were looking through a kaleidoscope. The dull murmur of the road and the odd, baffling screams of the local school have been replaced by harlequin birdsong and happy shouts and splashes from neighbouring gardens.

And this little spot, a square table and garden chair, looks out on tufts of pea-green grass and plump bushes. Leafy vines hang like bunting across the house. The trees stand proud again with their many hands stretched out to the sun. There are beds spilling over with linen-white petals, lilac spotted cups, violet sprigs and blushing roses. There are lemony coronets scattered about with lip-gloss pink petticoats waving from the flag-poles. Everywhere the flowers seem to wink and nod at you in a friendly kind of way. You cannot imagine how perfect it is.

And I suppose, if I could live like this everyday, I might be persuaded to sit it out.


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