Small Satisfactions

I've got a lot done in the garden these past few days, what with spring being here and all. When I go out in the morning I usually have a plan, but it morphs into other ideas as my eye roams around so that I end up doing what I intended but so much more. Yesterday I began by clearing the bed beside the freemontedendron in readiness for the salad leaves and other summer vegetables I propose to plant there. I raked it all to a level smoothness, piling up the stones that never stop surfacing. Once I'd collected all of these and hurled them over the fence I spotted the brick outhouse that I rudely call a shed - I think it must have been a washhouse in Victorian times - and decided the time was right to spring clean it. Oh yes, my kind of job (but not in the house) and I could barely conceal my excitement at the prospect. I'd dropped an empty wineglass in there a few weeks ago and put off clearing the pieces up because of the general mess of tangled garden tools and lose flowerpots. Now I set to, systematically working my way from one end to the other, and several hours later my nose was full of dust and the rest of me was filthy but the place was organised and clean.

Today I let Nick do most of the work while I pottered around and passed him tools, watering cans and bone meal. He hauled down the second rampant ivy, dug out the roots of this and the first one, moved a chaenomeles - Japanese quince - that has always been too far away from the trellis it is meant to cover, lifted an old and beautiful azalea from the pot it has inhabited for years into a fresh piece of ground, moved a climbing rose from an inhospitable spot in the path of the north wind where it has not thrived to a more amenable place against an old red brick wall, and hauled four bags of compost out of my car boot. A really productive morning.

But the best bit of the day came when I had a brainwave and managed to pull it off. I had to smash the bolt on the garage door on Christmas Day as the key was locked inside and so were all the bottles of sparkling water. I've tried everywhere to replace the bolt without success. Then I had a good look at it and realised that it could probably be mended with a bit of clever welding. This afternoon Hugo and I took it into the garage in Framlingham, and a terribly nice man did exactly that. And charged me a fiver. I couldn't wait to get home and refit it to the garage door. Small pleasures, I know. It may sound sad to those with more thrilling lives. But to me there was nothing to beat the utter satisfaction of this achievement. And sitting beside me as I turned the last screw, Hugo completely agreed.