What with the combined efforts of myself, the Professor, the Refugee Gardener and Dr Brennan the Artist, the garden wall now boasts two layers of limewash. I have done something nasty to my lower back, which I very much hope is temporary. The wall is drying very slowly, since the concrete blocks of which it is made are revetting quantities of soggy pasture behind, but we are increasingly optimistic about the colour. Since the RG has managed to find a new handle for my garden fork, once everyone is sure they have finished trampling about in the borders, the ground elder pogrom can begin, assuming my back has resumed normal function. Dr Brennan the Artist was (is) here with a high quality stepdaughter — she is a great lover of nature & what with cats, dogs, horses and what have you, there is a fair bit of nature within immediate reach. But beyond that, my ex-Gamekeeper very sportingly took her off to see deer and other wildlife, and all has gone swimmingly, even though the stepdaughter hasn’t been entirely well — she’s one of those sensible children who has the nous to go to bed with a carton of apple juice, a computer and some DVDs and spend a very quiet, cosy day in order to save up her energy for gallivanting about the woods with our favourite soldier. Guests, inevitably, encourage one to go around looking at stuff, and one thing I was pleased to see, walking by the pond yesterday, was that the primroses, ultimately from Berwick-on-Tweed via my mother’s garden, have not only dug in where I planted them, but have begun to proliferate. Tiresomely, the patch of flourishing seedlings had put themselves on the flat, where they will inevitably end up mowed, so earlier this afternoon I carefully transferred them to sites on the bank. Miss Kit, annoyed at the fact that I was grovelling about on the ground with a trowel, attempted to attract my attention by springing up a small oak tree which overhangs the pond. I became aware of this drama out of the corner of my eye at a point when something, clearly, had gone wrong with plan A. Miss Kit was clinging to the wrong side of a tree-trunk leaning out over the water at an angle of thirty degrees, completely unable to move, because she was supported solely by every claw she possessed locked desperately into the bark — any attempt to better her position came, therefore, with a risk of falling backwards into the pond. I had to peel her off paw by paw, because she was absolutely incapable of disengaging.