Not a quitter . . .

Sometimes Polly just want to turn her face to the wall and see what happens. Old ladies used to do it -- I always imagine in those beds that were built right into the wall. Today is a day like this. It has been a beautiful day here in Wiltshire and the neighbours, who are all builders, are building a house for Ivy in her old mother's garden. They are all up there on the roof in a row in the sun going tap tap tap. It warms the cockles of the heart to see this, as this is just how the neighbours must have turned out to build the cottages here in the middle ages (witness the roof-beam with its wooden pegs in this loft). So why is Polly not a happy girl? Well, I guess she's pretty lonely, that's why.

During the night the wind made the roses round the bedroom window squeak and squeal like a ghost, and in the morning pots of geraniums were rolling all over the "patio" (which is just a load of old paving stones. What else can I call it?) At least the lovely old clay pots, found in a skip in Bristol, weren't broken. They are huge and precious, and they will all have to come into the house for the winter soon, as the greenhouse still gets frost in winter. Don't ask Polly why she doesn't heat her greenhouse. She bought a heater but can't face learning to use it, and that is going to be yesterday's story which may get written tomorrow. It's called "Oh for a man". There have been tornadoes in the Midlands. This is nearly the Midlands, which is, by the way, why it gets so cold in winter. We are so far from the sea.

So, what with the sun and the sky and still the odd kamikazi swallow, why didn't I have a wonderful day? Well, the day job got in the way, of course, and all the changes of outfits that that incurs. Easier to look for emails and clean up the kitchen than to get all changed again and get out there (but, in fact, I am just going to do that!). I am going to redeem my day by getting on out there and planting a big fat row of those long, high autumn shallots.

Many years ago Polly had her heart broken, and one day -- a day that shared a mood like this one -- she went on out there and made a strawberry bed and watered her strawberries with her tears, thinking that in the summer she would be eating them and reaping the benefits of all that heartbreak. The strawberry bed is long gone; in fact a second strawberry bed, a row of old tyres, is now in terminal disrepair, as the day job is killing Polly's real life; but, yes, when a load of us tucked into those first strawberries, it was a wry, happy moment.

So, on out there, girl. Polly is not a quitter.