Sunday 26 August 2012

A Sunday in late summer, and the summerhouse beckons...

Late August equals late summer in the UK. Next month it will be early autumn in my book. My calendar book runs like this - September, October, November, that's autumn; December, January, February, winter; March, April, May, spring; June, July, August, summer. And summer will soon be no more.

It's Sunday morning and ten minutes ago at 11 a.m., our south-facing patio had a distinct feel of early autumn about it, the sky under thin cloud, the air just warm, the breeze carrying a hint of the cooler weather to come, the light definitely autumnal. Earlier this morning, LSH (Long-Suffering Husband) had declared on the phone to an aunt in another part of the country that autumn had arrived in the West Midlands. It's in the light, in the air...

The birds know it - three weeks ago in Brecon, South Wales, we had sat in a garden, the sun cracking the flags, watching the swifts zooming around above us in screaming parties - it was about 8th August, and it's a fact that by the 12th August, the last swifts have left our shores, headed south back to their winter quarters in Africa. In the next few weeks, the swallows will be following them. At least, we returned from Brecon with a prize - the old washboard. LSH will soon be playing it, when we have tracked down a supply of thimbles for his fingers.

Now, though, the sun has broken through, the patio is immediately too hot and I have retreated to my favourite place in the garden - my summerhouse. Airy, shady, sheltered, peaceful, private... where I can have fresh air and gaze upon the garden. Today it is gazing back at me reproachfully. This year I have neglected it, hardly done a thing. Four weeks of solid rain in April and a further six weeks of solid rain in June/July have much to do with it - the rest, I must admit, is down to my ukulele. The weeds and dead rose-heads stare at me sullenly - that is how I see them. It's guilt.

Last year, the roses and I fought a gallant battle together against the fungal disease "rust", but this year the roses have had to fend for themselves - I haven't even fed them.

It's no use, I'll have to get the old scourge and hair shirt out again...

On second thoughts, the garden fork, secateurs and fish, blood and bonemeal would be far more practical...

After I've run through my "Summerhouse Practice List" or new set of uke targets, that is...

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