You know that feeling when you wake slowly to silence? When your morning doesn't begin with John Humphries talking quietly in your ear, and your bed is cosy and warm, and your first thought is, "I have a whole weekend off," and you smile and move further under the covers? That's how my weekend began a couple of hours ago. And here I sit, having read my blogs and caught up with my fellow bloggers' news, read the papers online, Times, Telegraph, New York Times, made two cups of tea, eaten some toast and honey, and at 9am I'm deciding whether to drive to Belper and have a mooch around the architectural salvage yard there, or whether to drive over to Nottingham and visit M&S with my Oxfam vouchers, burning a hole in my wallet. Every once in a while, usually every couple of years, I open my wardrobes and decide to throw away everything in them. I have a couple of suits, a handful of Muji jumpers and three pairs of shoes left. And my Cossack boots and three Boden skirts, of course, but apart from that, the wooden hangers are having a lonely old time in there.
I take a similar approach to my garden. If a plant doesn't perform quite how I intended, or simply smells awful (something to remember when choosing lilies), after a couple of years it's hoiked out into a pot for the church plant sale. When I moved the fruit trees last weekend, I dug over a lovely bed in the middle of one of the lawns, shifting some revolting evergreens and some lovely bergenias to make space for the Egremont Russets and Discoverys. The evergreens are already potted up and in a quiet corner of the garden, awaiting transportation to the next plant sale and a loving home. The bergenias are sitting under a temporary blanket of soil awaiting inspiration. The apple trees are doing well, already the sparrows have discovered their latest perch and are busily chewing off the tiny fruit buds... This might be the distraction I need to save my espalier pear from their greedy little minds. Fingers crossed.