Wet wet wet
It’s very odd in London after so much rain. I know that raining on Wimbledon is practically a tradition in itself, but on the whole a London July is warm and dusty; the God Hates Tennis downpours* a sluice of freshness on grass that’s going dry round the edges and parched yellow clay under the roses. The effect of what has been pretty much a daily deluge (I gather) has been tremendous green growth, but low light levels have inhibited a lot of flowers. Ealing’s a great place for roses, by and large, but they’re hardly to be seen. The greenery – bamboo has become popular hereabouts – is reaching for the sky, and the trees are prospering mightily: looking out of the bathroom window suggests a postapocalyptic landscape where the jungle has taken over. A flourishing, verdant canopy, with an occasional glimpse of stock brick. One appreciates the flaunting colour of geraniums, which continue to pump out pulsating pink and red blooms regardless, and cheer up many a windowbox. The light at my Ma’s tends to be a bit dim and filtered by greenery at the best of times, but it’s now positively subaqueous.
* JBS Haldane said that the only thing one could deduce about the Almighty from His creation was an inordinate fondness for beetles, but I think available evidence may point to a hypothetical Lost Commandment, viz., Thou Shalt Not Play Lawn Tennis. It might account for a lot.