Yet another soggy Sunday. The sun has done a disappearing act – and I’m beginning to forget what blue sky looks like. It’s been so wet our toes are webbing. It’s that spot in the afternoon when there’s just enough light left for a stomp up the lane, but not quite enough enthusiasm. I like a challenge so I hand the Smalls their still-damp-from-last-stomp-not really waterproof coats.
“We’re going for a walk, aren’t we?” Small 1 bleats, he’d rather be having a filling.
Small 2, on the other hand, is already out the door in her socks, splashing in a puddle, a really muddy one. Small 1 and I man-up, wellie-up and push on half-heartedly chasing Small 2 up the lane to persuade her into a wellie or two.
And just as I’m losing my voice hollering and Small 2 disappears over the brow of the hill and the rain gets a little more forcefully sideways, there, bright and bold and brave is a daffodil in full bloom.
“Hey you, it’s still the scrag-end of January. You should still be tucked up darkly underground!” I tell it, it shakes its head manically in the wind. I was just about to add that the snow drops aren’t dancing yet when the stiff-breeze-come-howling-gale dispatches most of the wet dead leaves into Small 1’s face exposing frantically thrashing snow drops and a few crocuses.
Isn’t it amazing that all this activity is bubbling away right under our feet? That far from being dead, muddy and flooded the garden is industriously beavering away on its spring time extravaganza. And that’s me, I thought, I may look like the lights are out, but simmering away somewhere in one of the back-rooms of my imagination is a new tale of crazy runners and angel wings. Don’t worry, it all makes perfect sense to me. It might not be ready for a spring time blooming, nature will beat me there, but I’m hoping it’ll be worth the wait!
By the school run on Monday morning, like me, the brave daff had fallen over and looked slightly trampled.