Scenes from a terrace life

Pretty. I love violets. I would like to be able to pick posiesful of scented ones. Memories of childhood.

Well, it happens, though not very often. Calculated risk. Sadly, though, this pot was new.  I might replace it or just use another material. I'll see what I find. Inside are fall anemones, just sprouting, hardy begonias (Begonia grandis) still dormant, and lilies. I may move the begonias to the brownstone steps. I still dislike their shade of pink. Actually, this is not a brownstone, I don't know why I keep saying that. Perhaps because of the steps themselves, which are brown.The building has a brick face, circa 1890.

The sound of spring masonry saws. Squeeeeeeal. The triple construction threat has at least shrunk to two. One townhouse has risen in the last year, and is all but complete. But the former Amity Street Horror is still undergoing changes (and is on the market for $4 million - would you like a mansion on Henry Street? You'll like the neighbours) and the deep hole beside it - below - is filling up fast with new townhouse basements. I can actually sleep through the 7am noise, but find writing proper sentences a trial.

The new seeds and clean soil on the roof have been fenced against squirrels and cats. I found cat poop in two of my pots. Not good at all. We discovered the culprit last night, I think: Estorbo got into a rare and noisy fight on the roof  in the dark and when Vince went to his aid with a flashlight, he spotted a pretty grey and white cat exiting stage right to a terrace two doors down. Estorbo had a super-fluffed tail and has upgraded his threat level to orange.

After a long day and before an entirely sleepless night, a glass of Vouvray,  a sparkling Chenin blanc.

Lots more seeds to plant. New pots to buy. A terrace to clean.The roses are pushing out new growth even as their leaves from last year cling to their canes.

A long hot summer? I hope not.