Sunday night

The roasting chicken is singing to itself from the 450' oven. The high-pitched fat-whistle that means it is close to done. Every now and then the gasp of the gas reigniting the long burner beneath the stove. I sip from a tall flute - cold Georges Gardet, a lovely pink champagne, from Vince's birthday yesterday. He and I sip in different rooms, in front of different screens full of different pictures, both quite happy in our separation. I wonder if it is our cyberlives that allow us to live so genially in such a small space.

My back aches from roof gardening. Unhappily, I discovered that a cat has been using my pots as a toilet. Unacceptable. Not this big black cat. I shan't elaborate on my certainty. It's not him. Probably the neighbourcats. So I did a hell of  a lot of cleaning and installing of fresh soil. I wore gloves. I bought chicken wire this afternoon and then contrived to forget it at the hardware store. So that will have to wait till tomorrow. I transplanted the currant into a bigger home, the black raspberry into a smaller pot, sowed the spicy mesclun mix in two troughs, cleaned the roof of winter's debris. Neighbourboys two terraces down sat on the edge of their roof and smoked pot and watched. Pigeons wheeled, ferries crossed New York Harbour, planes sailed down to La Guardia. I planned new roof picnics. I transplanted the wild rocket that had overwintered, with impressive tap roots. It will not take kindly to the move, and may die, but it needed more space. We'll see. I say that a lot.

Because you never know. You do what you can do. And then you wait and see.

I must dress the watercress salad. Supper's ready.