There are two buds on one of my roses and I honestly can’t believe they exist, or that they will bloom. Those who were here, or came here originally, when I seemed to put a lot on the internet about gardening, may be mystified / disappointed / intrigued by the absence of growing things in savour. It’s not that I don’t savour the garden, it’s just that I’ve always savoured quite a lot of things, and it didn’t always feel like I could write about that.

Anyway, now I can, which is quietly pleasing and comes with its own familiar dose of imposter syndrome. But yes, the garden. I have largely left it alone - for months, now. Physically at least. Mentally I have been out there, and with my eyes and sometimes hands, too. But I’ve not mown the lawn or lifted any perennials. I’ve not watered things or pruned. I’ve cut a few flowers for the house, I’ve taken photos of the sun landing on the back wall. Much like writing isn’t always typing, I feel that gardening isn’t always, well, gardening. In my other creative work I tend to brew for a long time before something emerges. I think that’s happening here, too.

And isn’t it a good time to brew? It’s got colder. I’m resistant to putting the heating on, so I am wearing jumpers and eating porridge instead. After five long years of protestation M gave in to my keening for an electric blanket, and it has taken on the persona of a beloved pet, with a nickname. Each night I tend to it by switching it on before I get into a bed, no longer yelping at skin on cold sheets.

So this week’s good things are cosy, mostly. While it’s still a novelty, rather than a necessity, to be cosy. ...