Stiff Upper Lip

In a sickening turn of events the country is in crisis, but we'll pull through. We always do. We just need to show our unparallelled ability to survive under any conditions, however malign. This was very amply demonstrated this afternoon when a road of pretty old houses in Framlingham, some very grand indeed, some more modest, opened their gardens for the first time in 15 years. Walking along the crescent, with the properties fronting straight onto the pavement, you could never imagine what lay behind. In some of the heaviest rain so far this year hundreds upon hundreds of us turned up to find out. We were a motley crew sporting macs and anoraks, umbrellas large and small, and footwear of all shapes, sizes and suitability. Some people came unprotected for some reason, and had to shelter in summerhouses, conservatories and sheds until the heaviest rain had lightened, which it rarely did. We were all ages and all genders, though in fact there are only two in Fram. What we had in common, each and every one of us, was a very bright smile, a determined twinkle in the eyes, and a cheery cry on our lips every time we encountered one another. "Goodness, isn't it wet," we chuckled. "Can this get any heavier?" and we laughed and laughed and ploughed on, shaking water from our umbrellas and hoods, trying not to slip on saturated paving slabs and steps. The gardens were incredible, some of them so beautiful they could happily grace the pages of a classy magazine. They ranged from a third of an acre to a small courtyard, and they were genuine places of seclusion and serenity which town gardens so often are. How kind and generous of them to share their secret spaces with us, and what a shame that they couldn't linger with us to explain how they had turned a tangled scrub into a thing of loveliness, or maintained an inherited slice of joy. We turned their lawns into quagmires though we tried not to, but they'll recover. We will all recover. This is what being British is, regardless of race, creed or colour. We are stalwarts, we make things work, we get on with it, we don't complain. It has probably always been thus, and ever more shall be.

Weekend guests can also be a joy, and these two were no exception. They brought amazing goodies with them, and we sat in the hot sunshine by the summerhouse for at least half of the visit, chatting about this and that, relishing the warmth. The rain didn't stop us either and we were most productive, though the inside of the car began to look a bit like one of those gardens. Hugo enjoyed the company and the fuss, but we both fell asleep when they had gone, him twitching and moaning in his sleep, me dreaming I'd left all the car windows down while the monsoon filled the interior. My best friend this weekend has been the dishwasher. Like the finest servants, it dealt with the mess quietly and efficiently while we did other things. Thanks old pal.