Living within worn corduroy

Faded books, tumbled words and blurred images populate my living room in a jumble. And that is just how I like it.

Italian influence

When I was in Italy in the northern autumn of 2006, I stayed on an olive farm just outside Assisi. Upon my return, I planted two small olive trees in large planters for my rear courtyard. In the interim I have assiduously pruned to create two trees that are fleshed out and about 6 foot tall. I am hoping they will fruit this coming spring. Above, looking through my canopy. Below, early morning Assisi.

Delicate rather than fragile

This is developing into the most gorgeous of Nodding Violets that I have ever grown. It is very prolific, but hard to keep as green and healthy as this one.

Fading into autumn

Ficus clambering prepositionally ...

A moveable feast

I treat my rear courtyard a little like a living room: when I get depressed I change the furntiture!

It gets a lot of sun, so I have an umbrella. It is visually private but aurally not so. When I arrived it was totally overrun with weeds and unformed. I evened out the surface and scrounged around the neighbourhood for bricks that looked good. This is the rear of the terrace which - as you might suspect from the ground level being half-way up the wall - suffers from terrible rising damp. However, after about 130 years, it is still standing.

That dog is such a big dope

Waiting for the danger to pass: Henry is a dopey Labrador who lives two doors up and likes to lick Sellie. She hides under the miniature Nandina Domestica and, when he gets a whiff of her, she is up and through the partially open front-window-escape. All my doors and windows have grills. I am used to it. But it also means that I can leave three windows open with impunity and still be household-contents-covered. The cats come and go when they please.

The downside is that frequently I can come home to four cats waiting to be fed!

Rear courtyard

The owner, who lives next door, was working on this terrace as I clambered over to check it out as rentable. It suited my social-conscience, was inexpensive and had dirt. I must have dirt.

To my chagrin, he replaced the ramshackle back fence with a roller-door which is getting more onerous as the months roll on. This is the backdrop for my Sylvie - aged 9 and named for my paternal g'ma - as she listens to the wind creak the hanging baskets (geranium, mint and succulent). Behind her, in the pots, is tangible evidence of my European excursions: a tub of lime, lavender and fig. I will show you the lemon and the olives later. Christine and I have just about agreed to return to Italy in the northern spring of 2010.