Readers with a long memory will - well, may - recollect a couple of posts last year which celebrated how very much I love turning up in my old bedroom and finding a little vase of flowers from the garden placed there by my mother. When I came home earlier this year, there was no little vase: so no ritualistic post here, but above all a sharp twinge of concern on my part at its absence.
But it's back. This proved to have been a real act of love, since it was very, very wet when I turned up this morning, and it had necessitated a damp scurry out in the rain. It was the kind of rain that, when it downpours in the US, people say Ah! This must remind of you of England - and I routinely reply - No! It never rains like this. This morning proved me very wrong.
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