This morning I attempted to plant bulbs in the unkempt, state-owned, grassy strip beside our building. I was not successful, for my dibbler hit stones and concrete within a centimetre or so. It also occurred to me that anything could be within that shallow-rooted tangle of green: syringes, broken glass, refuse from an Orange parade. So I scurried away back to our own garden, where I planted bulbs outside the shed, in front of the composter, beside the apple tree, and in a corner of the lawn.
I snuck out there at 7:15 AM, but to my amusement, as soon as I returned to our own garden and began to scrape away at ornamental pebbles, the neighbours began to emerge from their doors. One told me he had been troubled by wasps in the night. Another yelled from above at her bidie-in about the cat.
All in all, it’s already been a lively morning.