Sunday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The sun shines. I cannot say how extraordinary that simple sentence is. The sun has not been out here for over two weeks. It blasts back in, quite unapologetic, as if it had never been away. We all stare at it in awe and wonder. ‘The sun,’ we say, as if we are ancient peoples seeing portents in the skies.

I think of the people of Norway.

I do my work, because I am running up to a deadline.

Occasionally, I go outside and stare at the light.

From time to time, I check on the cricket, mostly to hear the voice of Blowers say: Oh, my dear old chap. Henry Blofeld must be the last man in England who calls anyone over the age of ten ‘my dear old chap’. I don’t know why I love it so much, but I do. I also love it very much when he says things like: ‘oh, he just tickled that away’.

 

Here are some restorative Sunday pictures:

The sunshine on the growing things:

New blue planting in the wild garden:

Sun on the salvia:

A sudden flash of red from the phlox pots:

Trees:

The hill, from a different angle than usual:

Off goes the Pigeon, with her waggly tail:

And posing seriously for her close-up:

She sometimes gets quite bored with having her photograph taken. This face is mostly saying, ‘Please can we do the thing with the stick again?’:

And, since it is a Sunday, and the sun is shining, I am acceding to reader requests for pictures of the famous Purple Shoes. Here they are:

I bet Blowers would like those shoes. Oh, he would say, my dear old thing.