There are lots of opportunities to discuss dark and negative subjects right now. I think it behoves us (ie we who are not directly involved in fighting a war) at least to keep abreast of the broad issues and arguments on both sides, as well as the general chronological developments. After all, this is history in the making. However, there’s no point getting bogged down in minute-by-minute analyses of which missile is hitting which building in Basra. And there’s no point in calling a halt to regular entertainment events if they’re not a) using valuable war resources; or b) risking national security. So I see as little sense in postponing the Oscars ceremony (in which I have little interest) as in postponing, say, the weekend’s Premiership matches (in which I have more interest, despite a sinking feeling of inevitability).
So, in the spirit of happy diversion, I’ll talk about gardening. No, really…
Sitting outside yesterday afternoon, trying to do some work on the laptop, I was reminded once again of how amazingly easy it is to persuade Nature to come and do its stuff for you. We’re not exactly gardening enthusiasts, but we have our small patch of lawn and a few flowerbeds, so we try to make an amateurish effort, based largely on the triple aims that our garden should look nice, smell nice and taste nice. With no space for luscious lettuces or apple trees, we’re happy to make do with lots of fresh herbs, and it was the sight of our tarragon bush (chopped back to ground level last autumn) stretching its first few leaves out from under a pile of mulch, that made me go “wow!” once again. Add to that the display of spring flowers (we’re living proof that any idiot can stick a few bulbs in the ground) and even the pokiest suburban garden becomes far more than the sum of its parts…