One of my favourite poems starts
"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun"
The hanging baskets still unplanted
What is the point, the summer’s done
The best laid plans, the good intent
The patio still unpowerwashed (enthusiasm spent)
Where are the burnished limbs I planned
The sun kissed locks
And maybe even fitting last year’s frocks?
The linen shirts, the cotton tops
Hanging by the unworn flip flops
And all those plans of summer meals, of Pimms
The kettle BBQ on wheels
A lawn like carpet, green and smooth
And then we get another pooch
Well never mind.
We Brits are hardy
Now where did I put
Last winter’s cardi?
Fruit flies - help needed please.
Army horses loose on London streets
Have any of you got all electric cars? Pros and cons please.