It’s raining. Goodness knows the ground needs it. I can hear a gardener talking with his client in one of the neighbours’ gardens. I expect he’s explaining why he can’t do much today. One should be sympathetic, it was a fine day yesterday and the day before and the day before that and so on. Still, the grass will enjoy one more day of blowing in the breeze before it receives another no.1 cut. I don’t water my grass, or take any particular care of it. It spends the summer brown and bristling around the bare patches where the dogs run back and forth to the gate or where they have attempted to reach Australia by digging. But here’s the thing, this morning it’s as green as Ireland.
The sky really is as grey as lead: no point in complaining. Change is good, they say don’t they? A change is as good as a rest, even. I suppose it is. But I’ll never get sick of seeing the azure, cerulean, heavenly blue skies that are more common here, when the sun is so bright even a blind man can see for miles.