Notes from the Potting Shed

 Ah, the tender hush of a Thursday not quite sure of itself. The wind's blowing sideways again — not with any conviction, mind you, just sort of loitering in motion. I’ve spent the better part of the day engaged in a spot of meditative seed tray rearrangement out in the back garden, or what I like to call “horticultural Tetris.” Every time I think I’ve solved the spacing of the aubrieta and chard, I discover a rogue Jerusalem artichoke poking through from last year’s failed experiment in underground tuber diplomacy.

This is the time of year when everything’s thinking about growing, but nothing’s quite decided. The daffodils are all out front like over-eager children in papier-mâché hats, while the lilac looks as though it’s still in bed with a headache.

I made a cup of chamomile and dandelion tea around eleven, promptly forgot about it, and rediscovered it at two-thirty behind the pelargoniums. Still warm. Possibly due to ambient faerie activity, but I won’t speculate. There’s a definite hum in the trellis today. Could be bees. Could be something older.

Neighbour Mrs Penfold continues her curious project of constructing what appears to be a full-sized macramé tribute to the HMS Ark Royal in her conservatory. When asked, she simply narrowed her eyes and said, “Just in case.” I daren’t question further.

All is as it should be, or at least as it might be expected to appear, briefly, between breezes.

I attach a recent photo. You’ll find very little of note in it, which is why I like it.

Yours in compost and contemplation,
Virgil T.