I am back being poorly. Confined to our London flat. Perhaps the long walks in driving Danish winter rain took more out of me than I’d realised.
So my world has shrunk again. No Twelfth Night on Plot 29, a tradition here for Howard and me. A late Christmas commune with our north London land and whisky. Sometimes wiser older men. But not this year.
Our sacks of manure still stand at the gate. Thrumming with life-giving energy. Impatient to start. But not quite yet.
I wonder about the seedlings there. Whether the bulbs have broken through. It might still be a little early. But the chervil should be thriving, the mustard surviving. I pine to see them. Perhaps I can persuade Howard to quickly run me up and back.
The blue muscari (grape hyacinth) on the bedroom roof terrace is not far away: green shoots, fingers-tall. Other larger pots are showing signs of coming, the pheasant’s eye narcissi, thumb-thick. The red geranium pot is in confused but happy bud.
Even the marguerite daisy is still in flower. A January first for me. Last year’s lovely salvia, too, has been pruned and tidied up. It also still has rich blue bud.
The astonishing Crimson Bengal rose is lush with green leaf. Half a dozen smaller flowers are about to unfurl. Slightly ghostly, paler here in winter. I think I even saw greenfly.
So, meanwhile, I am working from home. Trying to sleep – and cough – quietly so Henri gets her rest. Our deep crimson Christmas amaryllis has a giant happy new shoot just about to unfurl. I think I might talk to it.
Perhaps cheeriest of all is the herb window box by my work station. Sunrise-facing where I write. The thyme and marjoram are looking happy, but the cascading rosemary is a mass of delicate colour. My working world has diminished, but there is a shy beauty wherever I look.
Allan Jenkins’s Plot 29 (4th Estate, £9.99) is out now. Order it for £8.49 from guardianbookshop.com
