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It’s been raining for weeks. Pouring. Tipping it down. Barely a break in the endless grey that threatens to simply wash us away. The rhododendrons are late.

As is true for so many, it’s all I can do not to be dragged down. We open our eyes each morning to another blanket of gloom and wobble unsteadily, right on the edge of getting back into bed and giving up before the day has begun.

When I arrived home yesterday after three whole days away, my garden had become a jungle; unsurprising, perhaps, but somehow shocking. Today its still there; shocking and wonderful, shimmering and verdant, lush with life.