Thursday, May 16, 2013
The Iceberg rose is beginning to bloom reliably enough for me to pick the ones that lurk behind a tangle of branches, and which won't be missed when I'm actually sitting on the terrace - quite a rare event these days - and looking at them. The Munstead Wood has one ripe red bud, and many more green and tight, and the Abraham Darby is loaded. The two new roses have shot out tender new stems, but I won't see them bloom before we leave.
Can't believe it's so soon. Miles to go before we board, it seems. The book still does not have a cover or final subtitle, so that the specter of the Unknown lurks - never my favourite state of mind. I had expected it all to have been well wrapped up by now, but publishing works in mysterious - very mysterious - ways.
In the meantime, life could be worse than coffee and roses.