I lie on the wicker sofa under the cherry tree and make plans. I will move the peonies and repot the fuschia. The holly tree will be reshaped. There will be white tulips in the front garden in the spring and perhaps a window box of wallflowers. I visualise the pale pink climbing rose here, and then there, but prefer here. I ponder a small terrace in front of the summer house with a little table and chairs for drinks in the last sun of the day. The ungainly white rose comes briefly under scrutiny and as a result will be pruned heavily in the autumn to improve its shape. And then, after expending so much mental effort, I pause to watch the cirrus clouds in the blue sky through the gap between the apple trees.