I really should have some photos on here but I am too worn out to work out how.

A whole week of arts grant applications and all the excitement of diggers, rock moving and gardens taking shape seems to have happened on another planet with me locked away in front of a computer.

If I'd known how much work it was going to be, I wou'd just donate the money and go and play in the mud.

Lots of pictures and info very soon - I promise.  Only one tiny part of the final grant application to go and then it's done ... in time for Spring and some rain, we hope.

Am I supposed to tell people I am now thewritersgarden.net or will they just know?  Etiquette ... and I just thought it was about not dropping cake crumbs on the carpet.  A whole new world ...

There's something very therapeutic about a day in the garden - especially a day of hard labour.  After staring at the rather sad collection of kindly donated cuttings hapharzardly potted into an array of mismatched containers by the back door, the imminent arrival of a digger-of-mass-proportions meant that it was time to relocate them.  The movement of the forthcoming summer sun and hot dry days ahead also meant a new home had to be found.

It wasn't as straightforward as it sounds - as nothing ever is.  After the selection of a nice spot by the fence with morning sun and protection from afternoon heat, the first job was preparation of the site.  This did create some initial resistance from the Badger, and momentary grumpiness.  Badger doesn't necessarily feel the need to create that which is reasonable to the eye; he just wants the job done. However, once I had finally stopped pruning-in-readiness, and he could see the secauteurs were put away, he cheered up enormously and pot shifting commenced.

It was certainly a case of us-against-the-elements.  In gale force westerly winds, we loaded up the trailer on the trusty ride-on with dozens of pots for what seemed like dozens of occasions and I took the reins for my inaugural circuit on the mower.  Thankfully, the initial nervousness of the controls disappeared by the fifth or sixth trip from the old to the new pot-spot, and I was riding up hill, down dale like I'd been born to it.

The old pot-spot is now ready for the digger to reshape the earth into a garden.  But there is a small down-side to our success story  When the cuttings were at the back door (an entry/exit not often used), I didn't see their neediness.  Now when I gaze out the window, I can see all the weeny attention-starved plants, many in undersized pots, waiting patiently if not rather desperately for a garden bed.  They just want to put down their roots and flourish.  There was a time when I felt the same way.