of borders, bubbling manholes, brick paths as slippery as ice – all these have become the norm. The wetness of winter and spring have been a disaster and I only hope that by the time you read this it will be a memory. I loathe and resent it but wearily accept it as beyond my control. But the earliness of everything has crept up on the edge of the appalling weather and shunted the garden at least two weeks ahead of itself. And that is
