Home ...

Philip Larkin once began his poem "Home" with the words "Home is so sad". Sometimes I feel I know what he meant, but this afternoon I had a strong sense of my own past in this place and it wasn't sad at all. Sitting in the almost-too-hot sun outside my back door, where the white round the windows reflects heat and light from behind, I was remembering hot afternoons reading in that self-same spot, with a child asleep somewhere (afternoon nap time) and nothing to do till he woke. No work - I had 8 years off work when I had children - and no demands other than those I might impose upon myself.

The garden hasn't really changed much either. The border in front of the small window is probably the biggest difference - it was cleared of a 30-year-old rockery at the weekend and on Tuesday I put in some bedding plants to give me something cheery to look at while I make up my mind what to do with the sunniest border in the garden.
And, as they have done for all the time I've lived here, the bees were giving it laldy in the Rosa Rugosa and among the yellow lilies that stink of ammonia (the bees don't seem to care).

In fact, the only irritant was the racket made by a pair of cantankerous and very vocal magpies. Now, how do you shut up magpies ...?