Digging out the composter was one of Edmund’s jobs — he had the strength and energy, and he took delight in any activity that required a spade and heavy boots.

Me, not so much.

I can’t appeal to Neil-across-the-street this time. He’s recovering from a blot clot in his leg and his wife will skelp me if I lure him into doing anything more physically demanding than walking the dog. Maybe I can tempt Judy-next-door or my sister-in-law, who are both keen gardeners.

My hellebores are blooming nicely in their dark little patch beside the garage, and the yellow primula is in vigorous flower.

Yesterday, I took the big loppers to a burning bush that looked quite dead last summer; it’ll sprout in May if there’s any life in the roots, and if it doesn’t I’ll dig out the rest of it in June. When it stops raining, I’ll do the same with a moribund-looking spirea next to the gas meter ... Or maybe just scotch it and be done. I’m not fond of spirea.