The bees have woken up, the neighbours are trimming their trees.
Four daffodils are in flower in the front garden. S calls them The Beatles. I say “I’ll be sad when they’re not there anymore,” and then realise what classic pessimist thinking this is. They are there now, sunny and perfect.
I borrow a Ramones CD from the library, I make my Strange But Works cake (white cake with sultanas and chocolate icing). At least, it works for me.
Sometimes I think I could spend the rest of my life sitting in the garden, just thinking. The trouble with this is that as soon as a thought that is anyway interesting comes along, I feel duty bound to make something of it.