Being frightfully British I am talking about the weather. For the last few days the rain has been coming down like a tropical rainstorm but going on more or less the whole day rather than like in the tropics where it stops and the sun comes out and everything goes quickly back to normal and the wet roads and gardens steam merrily away.
Even the dog is suffering from depression. She came knocking on the door from the terrace and then stood looking like a cartoon hang-dog, tail down and head down. She obviously doesn’t like the rain either, what she will be like when she is brought back to the UK later this year, I can’t imagine. Eventually I found a towel for her to lie down on and she settled fairly happily. Poor little pooch, and poor us getting cabin fever from being inside all day watching DVDs of the Good Wife. Excellent, by the way, and thanks to my friends for the recommendation. And the swimming pool too stands empty, waiting for the sun to warm it up a bit, or rather a lot in my case, so that I can have a swim.
This morning though, so far so good, the sky is blue, I can’t see any clouds, and fingers crossed it will stay like this. The garden has benefited from all the rain and the mimosa tree just has to be seen. It is glorious and the smell is wonderful drifting across the terrace during breakfast. I love mimosa; I had a wonderful boyfriend who used to buy me mimosa from that flower stand that used to be at the corner of Bond Street and New Bond Street. I don’t think it is there any more, but I am going back 40 years. The mimosa was sold in plastic bags, and come to think of it, I haven’t seen mimosa on sale in flower shops for ages. Probably something to do with living in darkest Devon.