Seizing Days

Who could walk past a bank liberally strewn with pale yellow primroses and not wonder at their casual beauty? The magic of spring is all around us, and the speed with which it is advancing is startling. Primroses are just one plant which seems to have sprung up in record numbers. The rear section of my garden, the one that will eventually be a shrubbery-cum-orchard with daffodils and crocuses and tulips carpeting the bare spaces, is as lush as the Amazonian rainforest. Weeds are growing thicker than the beard on Bluto's face, and my current and ongoing - I could say everlasting but I don't like to whinge - job is to clear them away. It's not just weeds: clumps of grass from when this was part of the lawn have forced their roots down deep into the soil and evade my efforts to haul them out. But as well as the weeds and grass there are a thousand tiny poppy plants happily poking their heads and limbs up, and trying to save their lives while murdering their alien neighbours is a job too far. These wild flowers have been spectacular in the past few years, especially the tall ones with the light and frilly foliage and diva-like pink heads. I collected a few million poppy seeds of all kinds last year, and plan to sprinkle them when the weeds have gone, but I haven't put a date in my diary yet. It could be 2018 at this rate.

The wind is still icy, whipping across the sea from Putinland, and despite the hot sun I'm having to wear a hat. But it's heaven out there. I've cancelled my planned trip to Aldeburgh to see Idomeneo because I just can't bear to bring an abrupt end to this day and my efforts in the garden. Hugo pretends to be indifferent but I think he's pleased. Earlier today he frightened a delivery man who brought a huge box of flowers to my gate. The dog raced unseen towards him, suddenly appearing face to face with the poor man who leaned down to open the catch. The box contained a beautiful bouquet of roses artfully arranged with some eucalypyus and rosemary branches, and the scent is now filling the kitchen. A white earthenware pot was part of the package, and a box of sea salt caramel truffles. Mother's Day. Every year I insist that a card will do, but despite my unease at the artificiality of the day I can't deny the thrill of receiving such presents, and loving messages. Nothing from Hugo though. Perhaps I'll get an extra lick tomorrow.