His saying to me, shall we sit out? has become a summer feature. I’ve sat out on my own mostly so far. The sun has been intermittent and he wants it warm. So I go out alone to sit there on one of our fold-up chairs on the tarmac beside our car looking out across the wasteland that we affectionately call, ‘our garden.’ The rape has taken over, though it is beginning to die off now. But there is also white and purple clover, a big buddleia bush and grasses and foxgloves and further down the path a rambling rose, bramble and two different kinds of honeysuckle. I like it’s wildness. I like to sit and stare at it. Like our 104 year old neighbour does. Not that she can see very much these days, or hear the bees buzzing, or the dry leaves rolling and rustling in the wind. There haven’t been that many butterflies yet. It’s a waste of time. I don’t do much. I think, stare, and sometimes snooze if I close my eyes. Yesterday I had my hood up against the wind but it was snuggly nevertheless. I make do. I take the rest when I can. And it is fine. It is.
