Nineteen days until the UK leaves the EU and we still don’t know how it’s going to work. Or not. Any pretence at smoothly running government has long since gone. In many ways this is far more interesting, and I do hope the same old familiar party lines will not reappear 30th March. Anyone who thinks that it’ll be over in any aspect is deluding themself. There is no sign of the fat lady waiting to grab the microphone, though quite a few people with megaphones and a lot of flags. The far right have (again) grabbed the Union flag. This does annnoy me. It’s my flag too and I don’t see why a bunch of nationalists should be allowed to wave it about as though they are its keepers.
So while flagged deprived, I have finally filled in my application for my Irish passport, having received an answer to my query about whether I could submit a witnessed copy of my UK passport rather than the real thing.
I am supping with Octavia, and she will witness my signature, sign my passport photos in which I look like the perfect candidate for the post of Rat Catcher in Chief, and endorse my photocopy.
Then it’s a matter of some six weeks wait.
Spring will have fully sprung, at the moment it is springing into life all over the shop. We are having March winds and some precocious April showers; daffodils are bobbing about like billy o, and my new planters have both pansies and primulas unfurling their pretty petals.
I do love my new planters. I have to go and look at them daily. I made them from two wine boxes Octavia gave me. They are waterproofed (I hope) with three coatings of linseed oil, I drilled holes in the bases, and lined them with a porous garden membrane.
In my big planter, the converted trunk abandoned by a neighbour, the narcissi are still blooming, but the hyacinths are over. It looks very green at the moment.
All over London the magnolia trees are blooming, the daphne is covered in waxy pink flowers. A pair of magpies has been busily and noisily building a nest high in one the trees outside the flats. Primroses are palely yellow in the hedgerows. In the country there will be lambs.
They say gardening is good therapy. I can’t help wondering if Jacob Rees Mogg swapped the bad Latin and patrician manner for a trowel and a hoe whether he might very gradually be transformed into something better, just as the unpromising vegetable peelings, banana skins and MasterB’s used cat litter turns into wondrous compost.
It’s worth a try.