Friday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I buy more plants. If in doubt, there must be the getting of plants. I get three cyclamen, a small cotinus shrub, so dark in colour it is like very ancient, venerable claret, three bright laurels, some rosemary, and some more lavender.

When I get back, I discover that the next Test has started, and England have suffered a catastrophic batting collapse. That’s not right, I think. I hardly dare listen to the end of Test Match Special, but then lovely Stuart Broad stages a tremendous rally, and saves England’s blushes. I find myself oddly excited by this. I did not quite expect that, as I entered the middle of middle age, I should turn into a cricket nut. I also never expected that I should find a game that goes on for five days, and quite often ends in a draw, so edge of the seat exciting.

The sun comes out, and I go outside to look at the evening light. The Older Niece comes past. I drag her into the garden to look at the cyclamen. She very kindly admires them.

‘And look at the blue planting,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The blue planting.’

I fear I am becoming a garden bore, and that the family is being very, very polite about it.

Then the Brother roars up. He is wearing an interesting hat.

‘Come and look at the cyclamen,’ I say.

So then he too admires the cyclamen.

We stand in the yellow light, thick as honey, and talk about mortality.

‘I’m having a bit of trouble getting past the everybody dies thing,’ I say.

‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Well, that is a thing. It’s a bastard.’

We talk of concepts of the soul, fear of death, the Dalai Lama, and Plato. The usual stuff.

He gets back into the car.

‘Where are you going?’ I say. ‘In your special hat.’

‘To buy anchovies,’ he says.

The Pigeon gives him a big grin. He drives off. I think: yes, there are all the big questions about life and death, but there still must be anchovies.

 

Here is the astonishing Scottish light:

On the astrantias:

The amazing new cyclamen:

The faithful old salvia:

The new blue planting of the geraniums:

The view over my garden gate, to the south:

The Cotinus tree:

The blue and white bed, which now has a splash of vivid colour in it:

The lavender:

The trees:

Today’s hill:

And, saving the best for last, the smiling face of my Pigeon:

Oh, oh, oh, that face.

I think: one cannot get too exercised about mortality when there is that face to gaze upon.