My beautiful garden has been much neglected this spring. Blame diss.
But today I was out pruning and tending and weeding. I sat on the edge of the bed with my toes in the dirt and pulled out tufts of grass with my bear hands for an hour or so this afternoon.
And I know you should probably wear gloves and wiggling your toes in warm earth is not the most efficient way to weed a bed, but god it felt fantastic.
Birds tweeted, the church bells rang loud enough to drown out the hum of traffic, blown on the breeze from somewhere.
And I watched two woodlice chomp their way through a seed head, and a worm swing about and an ant dash and a spider skitter - this whole other world beavering away in a few square inches of my garden.
Somehow the looming spectre of Tories taking power seemed very far away. "In the natural order soon the worms will come for thee and me," I mused, thinking about Boris Johnson and humming Ilkley Moor By Tat to myself as I sipped a lovely strong cup of Yorkshire tea. "But thee before me, eh god?!"
