It’s chilly outside. I’ve just done my habitual morning perambulation around the garden, to check how well everything is doing, and I’m wearing fat pants and an old Hufflepuff jumper I bought on a visit to Harry Potter world in the UK with my daughter a few years ago. She felt that her character was most in line with that house’s values at the time, not sure if we’d still have visited if JK’s views on trans people was better known? Anyway, my outfit sharply contrasts with the sundress I’ve worn for the same walk anytime in the previous fortnight. As an aside, the garden is still looking lush in spite of two weeks without rain. My bumper crop of plums is most gratifying, and there are finally buds of fruit on the decade old mystery citrus tree by the front gate. Is this the year I discover what sort of tree it is? I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I hope it’s not another lemon. I already have two that supply all my gin and tonic needs. I suppose I could always learn to make lemonade, as the saying goes. Of course, I may be surprised by a last minute fruit drop, and the secret may remain undiscovered for another year.
The poor old swan plant has been stripped again by a new generation of Monarch caterpillars. A couple of days ago there looked to be one or two out of the bunch swarming over the skeletal remnants that might be big enough to pupate. Their fate doesn’t pain me the way it used to. I’d like to attribute this to my new found mindfulness techniques in action, but maybe I’ve just become inured to it, or possibly I’m becoming a cold hard bitch as I age.
So, my favourite season of the year has come to an end. Even before the heavy rain of the last few days, the streets were awash with spent pohutukawa flowers.
I’ve always been a strict observer of the twelve days of Xmas, and the Xmas tree must come down on the sixth of January (is my maths correct?). Apart from those years where I just pushed the tree into the corner of the room, and was then constantly surprised when visitors commented on it throughout the year. So, strict-ish. At least, I generally got around to taking the ornaments off. Anyway, this was our tree yesterday.
The dismantling may have been a staged process, but I have learned over the years that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step – and today, like Mariah Carey, the tree is boxed away until the next festive season.
What will the new year bring?