At the risk of creating uproar I have been enjoying the weather that has the city so sunken in the glooms. There are several reasons for this, firstly everyone is discussing it and noticing it and I’m a firm advocate for paying attention to the weather. (& mortality, unfortunately no one is discussing that) There’s plenty to notice about it.

I’ve observed that the rain, being the intermittent variety, means it’s perfectly feasible to work in the garden and have managed to do some excavating of my booming strawberry patch. However, I’ve also been engaged in the close scrutiny and spying and entrapment by my two not so fat fingers of the burgeoning slug increase. Ha! I’m onto these fellas finally. I’m getting crafty with them and scooping them out to a salty finale.

Second reason I’ve been enjoying the weather is how it reminds me of November and winter. I also appreciate the audacity of it that it will do what it wishes and that the population demands what has come before, what they know to be summer and for the latter few days it’s on its own drive and direction.

The third reason I’ve been enjoying it is the terrible news stories that are being written around it that contain the most unimaginative language and invocations. It’s a firm reminder that the weather is linguistically unchartered territory except for the brief literature we have and Gerry Gilbert’s weathery poems come to mind. I must resurrect the literary weather forecasts and make some more.

The weather has in fact been good clothes drying weather if you are attempting to dry them on an apartment balcony.  Friday was a faceful of fresh blustery wind that reminded me of the most blustery spot on the planet, which I am deeply familiar with. But if you can isolate these single elements within the weather system it will enhance your neurological weather noticing and then when those very blue skies come, which they have done this summer, well ditto you notice them.

After epic voyages into the seed catalogue and salivation on passing the packets, it now looks likely that my poor scrap of a garden will be beset with only tomatoes, zuccinni, parsely, cilantro and potatoes because there simply won’t be the time to be out there talking and tending to the babies.

So much for the greenhouse woman! Not a pot filled and it nearly April. For shame, for shame, a disgrace.

This would be my fourth or is it fifth year — here I was hoping for great strides. Still I am looking forward to the flowerman’s garden. I often see him on the road and call out to him. And there’s the other gardens around mine, especially Marie. And the chef and Philip who gave me arugula, not to mention Doris and the sunken terracotta wine coolers.