I know I shouldn't be letting myself imagine the garden in the house we are buying. And I say buying, not bought, because it's not ours yet. Not yet. So I shouldn't be thinking of the little pink and white flowers that could tumble down the wall at the front, or the lavender bushes I could plant at the side of the path. I shouldn't be picking out perennials, annuals, shrubs for the patio. The bird table by the kitchen window, the bird box. And I certainly shouldn't be planning the raised beds at the sunny end of the garden, by the gate into the woods; the potatoes in buckets, tomatoes, aubergines, peas, beans, blueberries, rhubarb, cabbage...
And me in the sun. Digging and weeding and planting, dirt under my nails (maybe even a robin sat on my spade, maybe I could tame him and we could be friends? He could sing to me)
Oh seed catalogue, your full colour spreads and descriptions full of promise, look what you've done...
Patience.