The Feast of Stephen.

And a quiet moment of reflection.  I am sitting here over a large Bloody Mary, the last of the Vodka.  Thank God for that.

It is all down hill to Spring now.  This is what The Winter Solstice is all about.  Give me Pagans any day of the week.  Survive.  Okay.  All will be well.  Some of us do better than others.  I am an optimist.  I was born that way.

The Spring bulbs are already coming up and The Camillia has finally started to bloom.  Very late this year, but such a beautiful thing.  This bush must be about fifty years old now.  I seriously hack it back every now and again.  It has often grown to ten feet, but it never blames me.  Such a pity that it has no scent.  But the most beautiful of flowers often don’t.

I grow Roses instead, many of them are now twenty five years old.  They all smell amazing.  I give them all a dose of recycled Tea at least once a year.

Not that I have any real idea of growing things.  My vegetable growing is never good.  I try, and often fail miserably.

Growing children is a trifle more difficult unless one wishes to produce clones of oneself.  This is not a good idea.  Trust me.  I am at least aware of my greater faults.  And my children don’t need any of that old crap.

Hope.  This is all that matters.  Hope changes with age and becomes less demanding.  Just wake up every day and be glad to be alive.