I waited patiently all summer for my Cape Daisy to flower (well, I tried very hard to be patient but often failed). Many times, as I eagerly inspected the growing plant, a few delicate buds offered promise but then failed to deliver - the bushy foliage busily filling an over-sized pot to no flowery avail. Then all of a sudden this week in late November, as I was diving down the garden to break the ice on the birds' water and pick a few late salad leaves, I discovered a treasure... the Daisy, in its own time, without a gardener rushing it along, had produced two small but perfect flowers.
It is not only the Cape Daisy persevering against the Winter odds - peering out of the fallen leaves this week were a few Nasturtium, the last Feverfew flowers and a few brushes of Heather. Spending the few daylight hours we are left with at a laptop is perhaps a little waste of this brave world outside.
These melancholic musings didn't gather dust for long, as we were granted a visit by the newest resident of our neighbourhood and the new star of this blog...
... meet Whisky the (second) Wonder Cat.
He sadly doesn't belong to us, but lives in such close proximity that on occasion we might pretend he does. He is a mini Maine Coon, a cappuccino replica of Basil (the King of the Garden) who left us a little while ago.
p.s. Yes, in his first portrait he is perched on the top of a Leylandii. Judging by his mews and his subsequent rescue with a plank of wood, it was not at all comfortable and the Great Tit he was chasing at the time was not at all worth the effort.
Winter touched our corner of the world this morning as the first frost danced across the crisp green grass and embellished the russet leaves of the park. I however was in bed at the time, busy being warm and rested, and so the lovely picture was related to me by Bike Boy on his return from a morning run. 6.30am is a ridiculous time for any human to be outside of their front door so I took these photos a few hours later on my way to work. It is just so difficult to leave for the office when the home corner of the city is so achingly beautiful (in an urban sort of way, with a reassuring splash of concrete at the bottom of the photo).
As my last box of winter warming clothes has been emptied and replaced with a few sad looking summer dresses that will not see the light of day again for six months, I began today a battle of the winter wills, as the urge to hibernate and listen to talking books 24 hours a day while crocheting an alpaca cocoon around myself takes hold.
But it is not yet time for hibernation... although even foxy looked a little grouchy this morning...
So I pulled myself together for a terribly productive day of work with nice happy sunny people, followed by a virtuous (interesting yet lengthy) art panel discussion and then an unusually satisfying close to the day with a glass of 10p wine (two glasses for some) and a little light conversation at The Empress of India. Yes dear reader, you can really, actually, truly, honestly, purchase an alcoholic beverage for only ten pence in this fair city - however only for the next 5 days and only at 10pm on the dot. See 10p Sale!
As the nights draw in I have been in a last dash to tame the garden ready for Winter; harvesting the vegetable dregs before the slugs are over-indulged and sowing sickly looking choy sum, mustard and corn lettuce seedlings in the vain hope of winter salads, third year lucky...
Today I picked Mizuna and 'miniature' carrots for a stir fry (the carrots so tiny that it felt cruel to eat them, but then more cruel having wasted so much energy growing them in the first place) and some pot-holed beetroot for a nourishing soup. In the process of washing the beetroot I rescued three slugs and two wood-lice from their pot-hole homes, so I trust that I have avoided any added protein in our borscht.
As usual I was still gardening as it turned dark, so I donned my trusty headlight for the amusement of the neighbourhood and was tailed closely by a fox friend foraging for worms as I moved leaves and earth.
I had, until recently, convinced myself that the neighbourhood remained unaware of my gardening eccentricities. That is until a few weeks ago when a nice friendly-looking man approached me out of the blue in the beautiful Hemingway pub and introduced himself as a neighbour from two doors down who 'regularly watches me in my garden'. Yes; he has seen me at 7am in my pyjamas talking to the foxes; and at midnight in torrential rain collecting slugs by torchlight. He has not though, thankfully, witnessed the disposing of said slugs in the next door (derelict) garden, although in future he may pay more attention...
