Is it summer? I hadn’t noticed.

It should be the height of field suppers, long afternoons in the hammock, chilled cider and strawberries. Instead, I am fielding complaints about how the romantically tumbling plants along the back path drench everyone who passes.  

I am buying my annual pair of wellingtons in July. I have put my barbour on more times this month than I have for a year.

But courgettes. There is no such thing as a glut in my eyes. I could eat them for three meals a day. And the clotted cream jasmine is adoring the moisture and has sent tendrils all over the courtyard. The sunflowers can put on a foot of growth seemingly in a day.

The roses on the other hand. They’re hating it.