While I was processing the photos I took in the garden this afternoon, my Met Office app beeped a rain warning at me - which I'm going to describe as too little, too late. Shortly after that, R came back in from running some errands in Stratford, wet to the fetlocks after having made the (bad) decision to return to the car via the Avon tow path. The path is now apparently so far under water that the benches lining it can barely be seen above the surface of the river, and even detouring along the fence at the edge of the park didn't save him from having to paddle.
On the plus side, my pulmonaria is now coming into flower, as you can see - ready to feed the new season's Anthophora plumipes, which find it completely irresistible. Given a few days of warm and dry weather, I feel certain that I'll be happily skipping about after plumpies.
Today I wasn't skipping anywhere, and not just because of the weather: I seem to be incubating some kind of virus, and my joints have gone mad. They will settle in due course, but right now I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself. I feel an early night coming on.
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