I cut my first roses of the year this evening.

I know, but it's a shady garden and I do live 'up North'.

The first ones, three ish-perfect pink roses, are on the dressing table next to my grampy's photograph.

In the photo it's Christmas and I must be nearly three, sitting on my dog on wheels and laughing. He's looking down at me, smiling, his huge hands around me.

I've inherited his huge hands. Thankfully they've come with his green fingers. He was a great gardener and he particularly loved his roses.

And now so do I. Looking after them brings me as close to him as I can be now and putting fresh flowers beside the photograph of us together is a weekly ritual.

But the first roses of the season are that bit more special.