It’s getting quite autumnal now, but I feel ready for it this year. We’ve had so much rain and hence, so much growth, that I’m looking forward to a reprieve and a slowing down. 

I’m never quite sure what I’ll see when I look out of the window here. I could happily gaze out most of the day; there is never a moment when some animal or other isn’t up to something.

Roses: you have finally got me. 

Something has to give. 

It was a bit of a surprise, two weeks ago, to awake to this:

It’s been a funny old month. Not the easiest in many ways. 

If you asked all Brits to name their least favourite month, I reckon February would be top of the pops. Winter is dragging on, there are no public holidays; it’s like an annoying, short aberration of a month with nothing going for it at all.

It’s hard to describe the scale of thrill that a deep covering of snow induces. Even in my forty-sixth year. 

I think the Queen was right. But then I am quite a fan. I’ve grown out of thinking her too frowny and miserable, posh and frumpy and now see her for the extraordinary force of good and stability and sacrifice that she is.

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say it. Is it acceptable to have really enjoyed lockdown?