Bee-fest

I'm writing this entry early for me (it's 8.50pm) because I fear I may become too engrossed by the news later to be coherent, and I might be tempted by visions of Trump's bathroom full of secret documents or Boris being deeply hurt - or whatever inappropriate emotion he's currently expressing - at being hounded out of Parliament. Up and down the land newspaper editors are returning to their desks and twitter is alive with vulgar hilarity.

And I'm choosing to post a photo of a bee in my most recent meconopsis flower, a bee whose saddlebags are already bulging as it tootles out the pollen from this new heart just opened to it. My garden is alive with bees today - inside the few rosa rugosas whose flowers have opened, inside the old-fashioned rose that hides by the wall and appears every summer, even buzzing over the tiny lilac flowers on the thyme plants. Tomorrow they'll be able to add the smelly yellow turk's hat lilies to their rounds - I've just noticed two have unfolded - and soon the philadelphus will be open to them as well. This is the best time in my exuberant garden, and the bees are happy and abundant.

I'm feeling less concerned about the things I've had to cancel, now that I know that there's money in my credit card from Saga and an offer from Loganair that will cover my midnight taxi marathon; all I have to worry about right now is having a voice to sing with on Sunday afternoon when we give our concert in Millport. We do have to get there, right enough, on a CalMac ferry ...

Today I dealt with prescriptions and posted a birthday present; I slept in the garden; I had a lazy sort of walk out the Ardyne. It was actually pretty windy by the sea, enough to dilute the effect of wall-to-wall sunshine. I've had my curry and now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with the telly ...