And so she is seven. It’s been a weekend of glorious weather: one day for parties; one for gardening. Twelve growing girls, and our own two small boys, ran wild in the back garden yesterday. Peg dolls were made, hula-hoops twirled, ice-cream eaten. Later, B & I went to a party of our own, and drank, and talked to friends, and stayed out in a magical garden until long after dusk had turned to darkness. And today, I planted out the sweet peas, some mange-tout, and a verbena bonariensis, watched and chatted to by the older of the small boys, while his little brother sat in the sandpit (eating sand as it turned out), and his sister devoured Ramona books one after another on the garden bench. The first vivid purple alliums are out, and the aquilegias, dusky pinks and purples, are nodding their bonnets.
But now the partying is over. And I’m planning an early bath and an evening with a long awaited book.