Heady Times

The peppery scent of lupins, sweet and sharp, is one of the most evocative in the garden. Others are lilac, wallflowers, antirrhinums, phlox, honeysuckle, and even irises as I discovered this morning, each one causing your nose to follow it zigzagging from flower into the air like those old Bisto ads - or was it Oxo? - sniffing sensuously. I did this as a young child, wandering in a happy daze through an overgrown, neglected garden on my way home from school, the flowers and shrubs an unkempt tangle of heady sweetness. It was like heaven in there to me, a haven of pleasure, the silence broken only by birdsong, my thoughts confined to my immediate surroundings. It's like that again now, my life, and I'm happy to have returned to this state. Yesterday only the occasional passing vehicle broke into my reverie as I worked in the garden, the sun so hot on my head I had to wear my panama. Those constant internal arguments - "I'm going to sit down now and have some lunch", "No, do a bit more. You'll never get finished!" have ceased, and my head is filled instead with peace. I mull over what to do to break up the big expanse of lawn, but it's a languid, easy mulling without conflict.

What on earth do we do in the winter though, I wonder? The comparative inactivity must be killing. In these warmer months I'm on my feet literally from morning until hunger and tiredness drive me in again at the end of the day. When the nights draw in and the days shorten I do the crossword, I read, I learn Italian, I swim, I play bridge, I walk. In the evening I often watch television in front of the woodburner. I have been known to do some housework, sometimes. But it's nearly all sitting down, and it makes my muscles seize up. I dread the thought of it. Our forebears probably welcomed the slowing of time, the chance to rest and catch up, but it's not something I look forward to. Not a bit.