I Reap What I've Sown / Not Sown

Finding a garden unexpectedly on the flat roof at the back of my home has been a gift from lockdown, slow down, sit down, hunker down … down the stairs I go each morning, doing my yoga moves as I climb out of the window at around 10am. This is the time when the sun comes round the rooftops, or rather the rooftops tilt further, letting the sunshine through. From that point, on a fine morning, I have about two and a half hours before the earth tilts me back into shade.

I've adjusted my working habits to suit, and I'm reading more books - Rights and Wrongs in Social Work by Mark Doel works even better in fresh air. I can't see my laptop screen outside, so it has to be paper, and it has to be one of twenty books I hustled from my office when I knew it was likely I'd be away from the campus for a while.

I've adjusted my horizons to suit, have explored the 12 metre length, 1.5m width of space, finding more pleasures - in particular the luck of a pot bound hydrangea with newly sprouting flowerheads.  My friend, G K Anarchist, socially distanced a bag of compost for me, and I cycled over to pick it up from outside his home. On the way back, I pushed my way up Wyle Cop, my bike tripled in weight. I quarantined the bag for a couple of days, before opening it up, digging my hands into its dark richness, then liberating the hydrangea into wider, deeper soil.

I've adjusted my cooking to suit the herbs in the garden. I'd always considered coriander exotic because of its association with spicy dishes, but it turns out to be surprisingly easy to grow from seed. The leaves I've harvested so far taste miraculously like coriander, so I made a celebratory meal of butternut squash curry, homemade naan,  rice, mango chutney and yoghurt - then garnished the lot with a first sprig from the largest coriander plant.

I've adjusted my choices to suit,  aligning myself with my son Jonty's vegetarianism, his decision based on thoughtful consideration. I've slipped into it, and to the excitement of my weekly veg box from Pomona - a Shrewsbury grocery store which also delivers, if requested, maple syrup and lavender plants.

I've adjusted my swims to the size of my bath, easing myself under water as each day ends, into the comfort of warmth and lemon soap, into the sensation of almost floating: a nod in the direction of weightlessness.

I Find a Garden

At the top of the first flight of stairs to get to my flat from the front door is a window. Beyond the window, a forbidden flat roof. When I say forbidden, it's a roof on which a couple of years ago a decorator planted his ladder. So it's not exactly forbidden, and it's safe enough.

Since the benches have been taped off, I've been longing for somewhere to sit in fresh air. All week, my mind's been wandering to the flat roof. And yesterday, I was in conversation with an on-line community of people who seek greater connection with nature and themselves by paying close attention.

The inspiration of that community had me climbing out of the window, onto the roof. Having a reduced allocation of physical courage, I took many safety precautions, including a sturdy box on which to stand to make getting back through the window easier.

I sat in the courtyardbehind my flat, one floor up. A bee buzzed overhead, a blackbird sang. The still-bare trees (invisible to me from my home until now) stood still. The scent of  hyacinths in my window box filled the air.

Growing in confidence, I began to explore the space. It's about 2 metres wide, and 6-7 metres long, edged with a low brick lip, capped in stone. The roof surface is gravelly, mossy, and there are four raised skylights which must illuminate the shop storage rooms below. I found a potted Hosta - its leaves perfect from a lack of slugs.

Two black rubbish bags looked untidy in one corner. Thinking I'd dispose of them, I looked inside - they contained old compost, plastic pots, two long, shallow plastic trays, the tangled rootballs of forgotten plants, leaf mould. A gift. All I need, with the seeds I've been germinating for my summer window boxes, to make a garden.

I Count to B

B is for Brothers. I think of them every day. B is for Boys - my two sons: brilliant, bold, kind, funny, optimistic. B is for the Buns I am baking for breakfast (it's Good Friday, so they're Hot Cross, not Belgian) - kneading dough when there's no particular rush. B is for bulbs, for the hyacinths and daffodils blooming in two window boxes which Mike installed for me. I have compost with which I can work and plan, seeds germinating and growing on. B is for Board Games. B is for Bathroom and my new blue tiles. B is for Book - of course. For the one I'm working on, and the ones I'm reading. B is for Banoffee pie. For Beethoven. And B is for Bob, and Bill, blue tits I have anthropomorphised, who might also be Bert and Brian on some days. They visit my bird feeder, and if I sit in my blue chair, and am very still, I can watch them cracking seeds on the side of the feeder's perches. B is for Best Friend,  a London GP and isolating with the virus. She has described all the symptoms, they include annoyance. B is for brave. B is for better. B is for fit and well, hale and hearty, in the pink, tip top, fine fettle. B is for the camping we will be doing later this year, for risotto, Trangia stoves, Sauvignon Blanc, swims, and our Bicycles.  B is for Boudicca, and for Cleopatra.