I see a garden looking absolutely bloomin' marvellous at the moment (unemployment can have its advantages). The cornwlowers, sweet peas and poppies have burst into bloom in the past week, the hostas are looking magnificent, the patio is peppered with terracotta pots of geraniums, and down the bottom of the garden the vegetable patch is already provings its worth, with the peas and broad beans cropping well, the carrots and parsnips getting fatter by the day, the rocket and lollo rosso going mad and the last of the strawberries ripening.
Still to come are the tomatoes, shallots and spring onions, while the herbs are threating to take over the shelf on the front of the potting shed (and I've become addicted to fresh green coriander seeds).
And right at the back are some tall plants with delicated, five-pointed leaves that will hopefully prove their worth in late September (if I can root out all the male plants before they flower).
Behind those are the elder bushes with the berries beginning to fill out (some of the blossom has already been picked and is now maturing as elderflower champagne under the stairs), and behind that is the wood, full of beech trees, head-high nettles and brambles, where the local vixen spends the night barking most errily and where the blody squirrels that steal the strawberries have their lodgings.
There's one downside about the summer fesitval season - there's so much to do in the garden that a week away at somewhere like Sidmouth means negotiating all sorts of plant-sitters and volunteer waterers to carry on the tender work while one's away.