Garden, rampant

'Did' and I have had a grand afternoon together, felling trees, making logs, burning leaves and twigs. He has removed the hazel tree, increased my log pile by about 15% (it's a big pile), and entertained me hugely. Such a nice man, with a great sense of humour. He's a bit of a prankster among his friends, and loves playing tricks. We chatted about Akenfield, and he was very familiar with historical conditions for agricultural workers in Suffolk, although he doesn't come from farming stock himself. Old boys he knows still talk about the way they were treated by their farmers, owned like serfs and worked almost to death. Bad days indeed. He told me a story about old Clanker Clements who worked for Sir John Blois at Cockfield Hall. Clanker was known for never doing as he was told, and one day he drove a horse and tumbril full of muck and sludge through the main archway leading to the hall, an utterly forbidden act. Sir John saw him coming, and hid behind the arch waiting for him. When old Clanker came by he said, "Well now Clements, just you empty that cart right by here", (pointing at his feet). "But sir," started Clanker. "Do it" ordered Sir John. "But sir," he tried again. "Just do it Clements," shouted Sir John. So Clanker upended the tumbril and the contents flooded onto the immaculate York paving and, worse still, Sir John's expensively shod feet and smartly tailored legs. I dreaded how this story was going to end, but 'Did' was laughing. Sir John just grinned and said "Ha ha! For once you've done as you were bloody well told!" and strolled away. Nothing more was ever said.

No more hazel

As my back garden continues to get pared to the bare essentials in preparation for its make-over, the front has burgeoned and blossomed with ferocious speed. Roses have bloomed with an excess bordering on vulgarity, the fresh and the decaying heads  interweaving together as the dead-header continues to neglect her duties. Summer comes upon us so suddenly and voluptuously that the light garden duties of spring are quickly overtaken by an urgency that threatens to overwhelm. Already I am thinking soothingly that, come the autumn, everything will be manageable again, and I can cut back, thin out, prune and remove.

Growing like triffids

I thought I'd found my perfect dog, a 4-month-old whippet pup called Bowie who had caused an allergic reaction in his owners' small child, and was being unexpectedly rehomed. Alas someone got there before me, and the little chap has found his 'forever family'. I'll continue to search, and now I have 'Did' looking out for me as well. He has six dogs, and his girlfriend has four. Sooner or later my own little person will turn up. Just the one thanks.

Bowie