Promise

It's been a slow starter, this summer. We had snow in April, and have had wind and rain and grey skies ever since. Occasionally we have a day of sunshine and then it's glorious, but the following day it returns to the type of cold overcast day more familiar in march or october than June.

One thing I've noticed, though is that nobody has told the plants that summer hasn't come, they are still coming along beautifully waiting and hoping. It's as if they know something that we don't. My tomato plants are flowering bravely, confident that there will be a burst of summer sun to ripen their fruits, the trees are all in glorious leaf waiting to provide relieving shade for the passers by. And then there's the lavender. On my walk from home to the bus stop, and from the bus stop to work I pass lavender bushes. The ones near my home have just this week burst into flower. Bees are buzzing away merrily and the flower heads sway gracefully in the not-so-summery breeze. The lavender bushes by my workplace are a little more reserved. They've been in bud for weeks now, but haven't had the courage yet to venture out. Perhaps they, like me, are unconvinced that this summer will be any better than last summer. Every day the lavender and I size each other up - they're still not flowering, I'm still wearing long sleeves and a jacket. Obviously the time isn't right yet.

Perhaps in the next week or two the weather will improve and both I and the lavender will be persuaded to relax a little and enjoy the sunshine. Just not yet, apparently.

Beautiful soup, so rich and.. er... orange!

I waited in the rain for 20 minutes this morning, as the number 1 bus made up its mind whether to come, or not. Had I caught a bus immediately, I would have been rapidly ensconced in my normal early-morning fug of cigarette smoke from the boys at the back of the bus. Happily buried in my library book I would have sat in traffic until I got to work.

However, this morning, the bus was late or missing and I was cold, wet and blustered by the time it arrived. I still got stuck in traffic and so I was 15 minutes late for work. Better than that, the powers that be had decided to schedule the most vicious part of the morning's rain/hail storm to commence at the exact moment I got off the bus, and last exactly long enough for me to get totally drenched while crossing the road to our building. Eugh! The cars were busy on harborne road, and didn't want to let a bedraggled female cross in front of them, perhaps my pitiful soddenness offended them in their cosy, watertight cars...

When I entered the building I removed my raincoat to stop it dripping on my trousers, and left a puddle in the hall. I got upstairs, totally soaked from the waist down and spent the next two hours with cold, bare feet as I waited for my socks and shoes to dry. The bliss of hot-water-pipe-warmed socks on cold-but-dry feet brought forth sighs of rapture, but the best of all was the bowl of thick, scented, velvety soup I'd packed for my lunch. A good bowl of soup does wonders to cosset a cold soul, and my sweet potato and cumin puree was absolutely delicious! Thank heavens I have some more for tomorrow - they're threatening snow!

Them Boots were made for Walking

I have been reading The Cottage Smallholder regularly for a couple of months now and absolutely adore the way its owner, Fiona, writes. Her most recent post is about boots, and reminded me of my beloved CAT boots that I bought when I was 16 and in full flush of Rocker-wannabe mode.

I bought them at a factory outlet store in Denver, Colorado and was so excited about my big black kick-me boots. Unfortunately, I grabbed a pair off the shelf and didn't realise that US size 6 is a UK size 8. So whenever I wore them I had to wear big thick socks.

I loved my Cat boots, they were of the bulky butchness that made me stride with intent everywhere I went. Not made for mincing or tripping lightly, these boots made me feel confident and that I had purpose. I wore them with jeans, I wore them with my long khaki skirt. I even wore them very happily with my ankle-length velvet dress, long black coat and spiky dog-collar. I wore them on my first date with my first boyfriend, and the new-boot smell still reminds me of taking the boots off at his house.

After a while the soles began to wear down and lose their grip, and on one occasion I had a thrilling sense of aquaplaning at the top of New Street as a layer of water formed between the smooth surfaces of boot sole and blue brick paving. I fell flat on my arse. I got back on my feet, but felt I'd lost the self-important gravitas that the all-black ensemble gave me and after that I only ever wore them on dry days.

My love of the loud thrashy music which had inspired my image faded gradually towards the summer of my A Levels, and when the autumn returned again, my boots were somehow wrong for the new wardrobe and mindset. I did not take them to poland with me, and when I came home in the spring my head was full of girly thoughts of love and I rushed to buy more feminine outfits.

I found my boots in the back of my wardrobe a couple of years ago, sad and lonely and thick with the dust of over 4 years neglect. I felt so sad to get rid of them, almost like betraying an old friend. I probably even explained to them why I didn't need them...