NEVER quite remember how glorious it is going to be, that first day in spring when I can stay out all day in the garden, not doing anything unpleasant such as pruning roses, but simply fiddling about—a bit of weeding, a bit of tying in, but mostly just wandering, fitting myself back into the plot. It’s like being at a party, where people you haven’t seen for ages suddenly loom into view. Meeting them again, you remember why you liked their company. The equivalent of the party pooper
