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.

I wasn’t entirely happy with May. 

I’m sorry, Paul, but I think the four words that most frequently enter my head are probably, “I love my garden”.

March 2020. Where to begin?  I’ve been wondering that for a couple of weeks now, hence my tardiness in writing.

It’s been a quiet month in the garden. 

I have always thought there is little redeeming about November in the UK. Grey, soggy, dark, mucky, damp and dreary. Ugh. Everything is mushy, everything has a film of dirt over it and by about three o’clock you’re needing to reach for the lights.

I’ve always loved problem solving. In my first job, making McVities’ biscuits, my colleagues and I spent hour after hour, day after day, looking for ways to eke out a few more perfect biscuits every hour, motivated by the drive to please our wonderful biscuit-eating customers; oh and to avoid the particularly unpleasant experience of having to admit to 10% waste at the ops meeting the following day. 

In this new world of all things Instagram, I’ve become a little jaded with photography. I feel we’ve had photography overload: everyone taking the same style of photo of the same types of things, all designed to make something look better than it really is: more beautiful, more fun, more adventurous than reality. It’s all a bit fake, a bit stylised and really somewhat clichéd.

August is a funny old month. I’ve always thought of it as being the absolute peak of summer: the UK’s warmest temperatures, a full month of school summer holidays and gardens at their most fully grown, exuberant selves.