Rain

This weekend is the Glastonbury Festival - which is not that far from where I live - and of course, it's raining. Not gentle rain but determined, strong, wet rain. Glastonbury festival-goers will love it; it's part of the fun, slopping around in mud. I'm glad it's raining because it means I don't have to water the pots or the new fruit trees I put in a while ago. Watering is currently the bane of my life. I do it each evening with a watering can and it's quite an effort carrying a gallon of water to the end of the garden. I really should get a hosepipe.

The sheep seem to have eaten all the grass in the field and so now have moved on. We miss them looking over the gate . I think the younger cat does, too. She didn't quite know what to make of them as she had never been so close to a sheep but it was clear she didn't want them in the garden. Neither did I - but for different reasons.

There are so many things going on in the country at this time of the year. We have a local magazine - we have several - that lists all events everywhere. It covers a huge area. Friends from Somerton suggested a trip to a specialist plant sale near Salisbury that they'd spotted in the magazine. We went on a Sunday and it was there I found new garden furniture. I had been looking for about a year with no luck. As with so many things, when you are not looking you find what you want.

And the rain still falls. Ah, well. I'd better get on with some work. Procrastination is the thief of time, I am told. Yet sometimes, for a writer, it's good because it clears the head of rubbish.