We have been planting tiny grains of seed in the front bed, in the pious or religious belief that they will resurrect next spring as Clarkia, Calceolaria, Campanula, Larkspur & Scabious.  I shan't recognise them if they do; we are planting at a venture, inspired by a seedsmen's language: how they stand high & bear bright blue petals.  Then there's weeding. Very soon, in any occupation, one makes a game of it.  I mean (for I'm cold & inept at the moment - church bells ringing, fire just catching, & the great log we sawed about to plunge into fiery caverns) that one gives character to weeds...Then the tea bell rings, & though I sit & ponder over my cigarette, L. runs out like a child allowed to get down & go.