Wisteria.

Don’t grow it.  It’s a weed.  It produces wonderful flowers for three measly weeks and then takes over to the extinction of all else.  But then so do a lot of other weeds.

However, as usual, I wait with bated breath for next Spring.  I can already see what it is doing, and how glorious it will be for three measly weeks.

I finally got stuck into it today, and hacked off what could be quite good kindling next Winter, so I suppose that this is a bonus.

Robin Dominic will do the ladder work, and there is a lot of that, but he has strict instructions to only cut back to two buds.

I also sorted the wobbly table, mainly with a bloody great hammer, brute force and ignorance.  I can still spot an angle.  And kept on hitting it until it lined up.  It will do for another ten years.  After that I probably won’t care.  By then I might be allowed to do what I always wanted to do.  Just lie about in bed and look fragile.

I have long admired Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  I did have tuberculosis and I did write a lot of poetry, but the lying about in bed never happened.  And nor was I ever swept away by the love of my life.  But you can’t have it all.

How do I love thee.  Let me count the ways.  I did do that once.  For which I am grateful.