the sun cometh

I'm writing this in the garden. Can't believe it. The sun makes me look like a lobster but feel a million dollars. Finally, not two pairs of socks but no socks. I'm in heaven.

But gardens, eh! We want them. We claim to love them. But all those weeds. All that straggly grass. All those chores than need doing. I've decided to go wild with mine and, like Quintin Crisp with the dusting (after 5 years or so you no longer notice it) just let it do what it wants to do. I'm telling myself this is good for the environment. After all, don't butterflies like nettles?