Warm summer days

Were it not for the muggy nights I'd be easily convinced that I'd overslept and it was mid-October. The garden's been looking like late summer for more than a month and the crocosmias and verbenas are looking tired.

This is actually an over-simplification: round our way the garden plants have been as confused as hell all year. I've had sweet williams flowering since January; July was the one month in the year I didn't have roses in bloom; my neighbour's garden looked splendid in April with a mixture of parrot tulips and spray chrysanthemums; all the magnolias are flowering for the third time; and my dad's been picking apples for a month.

I used to not mind, or even quite like, rainy summer's days. I used to scoff at friends who became depressed at a cloudburst: "what are you doing in the damp bit of North-West Europe if you can't stand a bit of rain?"

Ah me. It must be an age thing. Splashing about in puddles doesn't have the appeal it used to.