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?

You know it’s been a wet October when toadstools start appearing in the paving cracks. 

Where has September gone? 

I think if I could sum up August in one word it would be ‘bountiful’. Everything seems to have come to its peak: fruit of every kind dripping off every tree.

I’ve realised something happens in July. The garden seems to have shifted continent. I’m not sure why I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s definitely moved home.

It was obvious really. Daryl and Darylena were behaving most out of sorts. All winter we’d seen the pair of them together, gaily munching through my plants, morning, noon and night. But one day, Daryl went missing. It was a bit of a worry to see Darylena by herself.