We don’t have a garden on the scale of Monty Don or even Diarmuid Gavin’s more modest spread in County Wicklow.
We have a back yard.
I am, nonetheless, tempted to reChristian my wife Monty Clinton or Connie Gavin.
Because she has turned our little space into a magical place.
I’m a cold creature, largely because I’m skin and bones these days!
But when the temperature hits 16, maybe 18, there is nowhere I prefer to be than in my own backyard.
True to say we haven’t had a lot of choice in recent times.
But it’s nice when, even if your space is small, it’s the kind of place you like to be, where you feel happy, and which puts a smile on your face.
We haven’t had our burned sausages yet. It’s not quite barbecue weather, at least, not for me.
But it’s close.
And if we get a good summer, I’ll be as happy in my back garden as I would be anywhere in the world with the possible exception of Strawberry Fields in Central Park New York.
But the real reason I’m posting this today is I’m wondering what that damned plant in the corner is, the one under the bust of someone or other.
Connie has told me, but if it’s not a daffodil, carnation, rose or tulip, I’m lost.
I’ve a terrible feeling it’s a Triffid.
And if you ever read John Wyndham’s book, The Day of the Triffids, you’ll understand why it makes me feel a little bit uncomfortable…