My world shrinks. Slims down post-surgery. My plant planet reduced. For now. I knew it was coming. The signs were there. The appointments made. First we laid in a shopping trip to the garden centre. I needed freshly topped-up boxes for my windows on the world. Hanging geraniums, deep scarlet-petalled, with deep-blue cascading lobelia. The kitchen herbs in the dining room window were lightly pruned. Thyme, marjoram and rosemary refreshed. The front windowbox pinks were shifted to the back and paired with paler companions. Rooms reflecting a brighter view. The roof terrace was reconfigured. More plants moved up a pot size to accommodate summer growth. A deeper, darker salvia joined a bushier, paler style. The orange geum took on new joyful life. Spreading extravagantly, stems dancing in the sun. The leucanthemum daisy, too, graduated to a shiny new home. The lily of the valley shot leaves and spread more quiet flower than ever before. Scented like happiness, healing. It will soon be returned to shade. The Bengal Crimson rose has bushed, covered in hot pink handkerchief bloom. The fuller-headed, firmer David Austins kicked in. A thickly petalled, lightly scented Roald Dahl quickly threw out pale apricot blooms. The lemony fragrant Poet’s Wife is following more sedately behind. I brought a massed bunch of the plot poppies home. Too rampant now, smothering the peas, home to snails. Howard disapproved. So they’re here in a large vase on the dining-table-desk. Almost otherworldly, pods parting, sporting crumpled scarlet flower. Bringing the outside in. Knowing there are flowers and plants to look after should aid my mood. There’ll be books and food and music. There may be wine. But having fragile things to care for, new life to nurture, colours to look out on, should speed the recovery. For now, the plot will impatiently wait.