This, the hottest day of the year so far, was so humid and overcast as to be energy-sapping and mood lowering.
Even the overnight rain couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to slide from the weeping roses, doing their best to brighten the day.
The head gardener, yesterday, had expressed pleasure that the photograph of Elizabeth’s rose had not sported any insects. I was unable to persuade these to leave this crisp yellow one. Perhaps they were taking a refreshing drink.
The unidentified delicate iris I featured a few days ago is in fact an iris foetidissima. They are now cropping up everywhere, in a multitude of colours. Named because they are supposed to stink, if ours do, the pong has not yet reached my nostrils.
Maybe all the plants were simply sweating, as was I when I laid a small set of the stepping stones that Jackie has been placing in the beds in order to provide access. This one was needed to save a trek round to what we call the Dead End Path that comes to a halt at the patio wall.
This afternoon I began reading Truman Capote’s ‘In Cold Blood’, which I am already finding difficult to put down, although I had to do so later, for we lit a bonfire.
Mr Pink provided our crispy cod and chips dinner. We supplied our own Garners pickled onions. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I quaffed more of the cabernet sauvignon.