Unbelievable But True Nonetheless

British people love to tell each other that the warm summery weather we are currently experiencing is an Indian Summer.   It isn't really; it's often like this in early autumn, but we do so love our colonial past, and like to wheel it out for a flaunting whenever the opportunity arises, especially when we are eating curry.

The reason I'm telling you this is to ease my charming, witty and urbane readers into the following startling disclosure;  I've finished potting up all the spring bulbs.  Yes.  I popped the hyacinths into pretty bowls and blue and white, lidless Victorian tureens in September.  The fragrant crokes went into washed food tins from Cora and the scented Narcissi went into smallish terracotta pots from B&Q this morning.  I've planted everything into gritty sand, and topped off the bigger bulbs with a fine scattering of white gravel chippings.  No more compost-ridden window ledges for me.

It's been a delight, standing at the long garden table potting up my bulbs under the  autumn sunshine, cup of tea to hand.  Even more delightful after I took the loppers to the blasted bay tree that overhangs the table on the top terrace.  I've lifted the crown by perhaps 4' and in doing so have increased the direct sunlight falling onto the perennials in this part of the border.  This will enable me to plant another rose (from David Austin) and drop a miniature lavender into the border's front, and increase the amount of spring bulbs here, too.

The bay branches are going into the outhouses to store and dry out a bit.  Then I'll strip off the leaves and thread them onto garden twine together with dried and scented oranges, pine cones and other wintry treats.  I'm planning to drape this along the banisters at the top of the stairs, and down into the hall around the handrails.  Should look and smell delicious.  Alternatively, I could chuck the bay branches onto the bonfire, where they'd ignite like a mad thing.