Rainy days and Mondays are perfect.

  ‘Rainy days and Mondays …’  Paul Williams did not like them.  I loved both yesterday.  Don’t love drab, soot cloudy sky in perpetuity, or bone cold, but yesterday, the rain and the beginning of a new week was perfect. No death eaters in sight.

No thinking of them yesterday.  I choose instead to work in the Orangerie, a diamond view of the Kitchen Garden at Ham House. Echoes of 1672 on a rainy day – there is birdsong, and the dripping of drops from the eaves.  Old books, warm kitchen cafe and tea.  Lots of tea.

Standing in what could have been a scene from Bridget Jones, only I waiting for the bus with the huddled in Richmond, narrowly missing the wave of water every time a bus stops here, I knew it would be a long walk.  The House is far for the footed and public bus travellers.  It meant a walk in the rain, with bag, another bag and countryside challenges.  I had three options:  the river walk, which may have swollen and cut off the path, the meadow and turnstiles, possible deep drifts of water and horses to tread lightly past – and the longer, but safer option in the wet.  Longer being the operative word. It’s a Winnie-the-Pooh kind of thing and this was English country living mouse time.

In the quiet of the Orangerie, I sat still.  Worked in stillness. Beginning of the week plans and execution of business, immersion of garden and planting for future crops. The tulips are budding, the ducks conversing on the river and I am telling you this because it all felt … so peaceful. So very English countryside life. Unhurried and uncomplicated which is anything but what some of our lives are in Silver Street.

I work seven days a week.  Commute most of these.  Taken to pencil writing in the diary for all the changes that happen – it’s just the way it is at the moment, so when it rained, was Monday and a good one and I wanted to share it with you.  Times you just have to find the quiet corner and be still.

Would have been a good time to pen a poem, but that was asking a little too much.  Time ran out.

Puddle luscious, drenched and not a care in the world, for a Monday.  Was a good one. A new page didn’t care if the hair went wild kind of day.  Find the same, just for a little while.



You have a voice and it is not a popularity contest.

Considered the worst line ever written – do not begin with ‘it was a dark and stormy night? ‘ If it was, if it is, you begin with … it was a dark and stormy night.

The point is, you write.  I write for so many reasons and I suppose therapy in doing so is one of them.  Writing is my diary, my inspiration, my observations and my solace.  It is my voice, for singing is not a gift I was bestowed with no matter how loud I try, so writing is not only a means to pen the emotions, but a silent ripple that may reach another that has a voice and is a little afraid of using it.

In this day and age, we can do this.

 Imagine Jane Austen right now. Or George Elliot or anyone who spent all that angst and frustration at wondering if their stories would ever be shared? We can do this.  But and I say this as I know many think that social media is part of the story. So let’s talk writing and social media.  When I began to write, and discovered the whole social media thing, I realised that it was a vessel, a way of getting my words out there.  It was, for me, never a platform for popularity.  Many think this, and panic about how many likes they will get, if they are going to be vilified and rejected by someone way out there in the unknown, so twittering and instagramming is great, and useful, but never let it be the standard by which you judge your voice.

In this business I know that companies look at the likes.  Making money from your blog often depends on the amount of followers before someone is willing to sponsor or pay you.  If this is what you want, then go for it – get those soldiers of social media working for you.  I am not for the obvious plugging of anything right now – perhaps some day but right now, saying what it’s like to be at the Silver Street stage of our lives, with all those awful goodbyes, sagging boobs and what it is like to run for the bus with shopping bags is what it is all about. Hate that, breathless beast  I am at doing it, huff and puff, wheeze and wonder. What it is like when it’s all about Insurance and keeping it together when everyone else thinks you have lost it – I don’t write to be popular, I write because it’s all new to me, frigging hard and someone else out there is going to say … hey, that’s me too! I hate the gym, and crocs and pretending everything is peachy when it’s not.

It’s ok to write about the hard stuff at our age. And the good things that come along.  About our memories and children and relationships and going gaga over ballet and a glass of wine with good friends. Being devastated when our parents die, jobs turn out to be ugh, our children leave and sometimes we just don’t know what the future holds.

Do I write to be popular? Guess not.  Do I write because I want to? For sure. And you should too without hesitation or thought because your voice will touch another heart.  It will make you stronger, more focused and at the end of the writing, you will sit back, pull in the muffin stomach, take another sip, thank the music and go … I can do this. Popularity is one thing. Liking yourself is another and it is through the words from your soul that triggers the best part of you.  It is in the learning. Learning is growth. Learning is never about the likes but about you.

It was a dark and stormy night … and I wrote about it. And I woke the next day to find the sun coming through my window which meant … I have another day to make a difference.

Images Google, pexels, pintrest


Giverny – where I find Monet

‘Always looking for mist and transparencies, Monet would dedicate himself less to flowers than to reflections in water, a kind of inverted world transfigured by the liquid element.’

In 1883 Monet and his family began their lives at Giverny.  So began his obsession to create a landscape of form and flowers to paint.  Ten years later he bought a neighbouring plot, over the railway line to create the pond now forever captured in his painting of lilies and light. Inspired by Japanese art, Monet landscaped nature, his garden at Giverny, his legacy.

I have been to Giverny a number of times.  Early morning train from Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris to the garden my mother spoke of so often in her life, yet never saw herself.  I guess I go for her in a way, to whisper whilst walking – you would love it Mom, just as you told me Mom, wish you were here with me Mom.

It is all about the light.  French vintage home, pebbled walks, spilling of colour. Pink on walls, fuchsia on trellis, hot colour walks, cool water stillness – even the wooden boat moored as if someone may just recline with a good book on a hot summer’s day.  Blues and Greens and purples and lilac and vermilion and yellow and sky.

I grew up with the Impressionists.  Name them all, their works, their histories, but only when in Europe did I see the works before me. The National Gallery, The Orangery, D’Orsay – I find them and stand there, just stand there and know there is passion in life. When life is small, they are immense and I think about their struggles, heartache and joyous fervour when life is at the end of their paintbrushes. Bow down to genius I do.  Monet is different. Monet seemed happy though at times lost for the muse, the vision, but able to find God in flowers and domestic in his family life.  He found his garden and in doing do, he found his art. Though well travelled and documented, it is here that contentment lives.

Sadly, the time I took my children there, the world came too.

 It was August and August in France is not for the weak. As much as I tried to capture the ambiance of the water lilies, others were pushing for a spot along the walk. The lines are awful, the mystery shattered.  I hope they will return when it is calmer and the ghost of Monet walks with them one day. They love the Impressionists, love Art, love gardens and I know they will return to find the magic that lies there.  It touched a little, next time, to drown in the beauty of it all.

For me, once, I was alone and took my time to find the angles, the paintbrush poised before the eyes to find perspective, the lilies bopping gently on water. It was years before that took me back, to the man who rose with the early morning to capture the mist. A short walk away is the Hotel Baudy, more French, more characteristic I could not find.  For lunch, a table beneath the trees on the edge of the meadow.  Looking at the Baudy, I could imagine someone shaking sheets outside the windows, soldiers walking towards anger and away from those they loved.  I revelled in the quaintness of simple cheese and wine at noon, laundry on the line, cows in the pasture and I immersed myself in history, in art and in rural France, on my own, notebook on the table and it is a feeling I remember and love.  

If you love Art, The Impressionists and Monet, make Giverny a place to be. Not visit, but be. Once you have, the Water Lilies at the Orangery in the Tulleries will make so much more sense.  Add more depth to your understanding of the artist and his subject. A day trip out of Paris. Reason enough to understand. A reason to realise that life is beautiful indeed.

Images Paris Vision, Victoria mag and Pintrest. Quote from Giverney

Bone cold. Courage little sparrow.

‘The harshest of winters makes of all of us dreamers for something better …’

A bleak day.  I cannot get warm.  All thoughts of snow and silliness are dissipate with the howling gale outside.  It creeps through windows and underneath doors.  Under and up, inside my bones.  These are cold bones today, cold is all.  

Silence is deafening. Night close, the wine needs no ice.  I am no longer amused by the whiteness outside and dream of its ending now.  Strange that I was hoping winter would result in snow, in something other than the perpetual greyness that has seeped into my veins.  How do others endure this now I think?  I see them plodding to work outside my apartment, heads down, muffled thoughts beneath the black coats. I think happiness has been buried.

Seems the worst time ever to put my apartment on the market.  Would even the daffodils in the delft vase give for imagination of spring?  Lights on all day, heating frail against the elements, but I have.  I have to.  The winter has reduced me to the bones, to the poetry of restriction to place, the depletion of spirit in that place.  To action.

As I long for the changing of season, I long for the changing of me.

We should never begin in a place of haunting winter.  As I pray for the sparrows out there.  The homeless in corners, the dulling easiness of routine, I wishing away of cold days, it is not enough for this Silver Street woman. She basked in the Summer too long to give it up now that all has changed, and this bone cold winter, with the cold wind inside her heart, she is beginning to realise that the warmth of life will only begin in her own steps.  And so, the winter of this discontented soul will plan for the summer of something else.  I have no idea where I am going, where I will end up, but it only begins when the artist picks up the brush, when the first word is written, when I am sure all I love are safe enough for me to move on. Godot is not for me, waiting is no longer for me.

Have courage little sparrow. The winter may whip.  The cold may freeze your soul, but it will thaw and we need to be ready when it does.

Image Daily telegraph

Silver Snow – we met and chatted. And it was good.


Snow was an alien concept in my youth.  I lived with sunshine, thunderstorms and dust demons.  Snow was Christmas cards with silver glitter and houses with trails of smoke, and once, I remember, a present of a snow globe that flurried when turned upside down. Snow equalled other places with hearths and sleighs and elves. If I say I dreamed of snow, and when it happened one day, I think I was about eight, I was unprepared for it.

As I was when I found myself living in a country expecting snowfall in winter.  A white Christmas.  The first year it happened, deep, glistening stuff that came overnight, and that is what I think about snow – the silence of it.  Never that before – how quietly snow comes. How gently it lands on leaves and new shoots. I love the stillness of snowfall followed by the crunchiness of stepping on it.

The last two days was a bastard snow.  Flurries and fickle sprouts of white only to be burned by sunlight. Did it snow?  Is it sunny – February is the true mind f..k of living in the Northern Hemisphere.  The Macbeth month – shortest and bloodiest, promising spring, sending the snowdrops, culling the snowdrops with artic winds. Hag February and today was no different for now I am still the child for snow and curling with glee, only to spot the homeless shivering on the sidewalk.  The wet roads, the complaining, literally trains going ‘no’ to commuters and somehow the snow thing takes a dark side.

So what did I do?  Took some time to fire up the heating, run the freezing fingers under hot water and another ready meal – not the best vegan Shepard’s Pie lentil something – I decided to wrap up and go back outside.  Night time. Back outside to the snow and have a chat. 

Woman to woman snow chat.

‘Why have I become so immune and blasé about you snow?’ I asked.

‘Why have you come outside you silly woman, at this cold and late hour? she replied.

‘To find the magic of you.  Thought that was pretty obivious.’ I retorted.

‘And you have to find a reason for me now, do you? she sighed.

Smatterings of her were all around. I had not noticed on my way home, head down, angry, wanting to get out of it all.  Didn’t see the trails left by children heady with snowcitment. Tiniest of snowpeople built to melt.  Glistening spaces of white in the moonlight around the lake. On car roofs, postboxes, huddled in corners. A flurry they called it.  A flurry.  Such a lovely word.  A flurry of white confetti on my space. 

Suddenly I was not longer cold, or old, or angry.  I was that child with the pictures in my head. With the snow globe. It was the stillness of her, the quiet cloaking of her, the peace of her I felt. I want to stay outdoors all night in case you are gone in the morning. Magical you, I whispered.

So much older now.  Snow does not age. She reminds me instead of all those things that bring calm.  And I love her.

Image: Telegraph



Why I love women who blog and the dreaming all wrapped up in a croissant and wine

This world was made for dreaming.’

Outside, well, it has not changed.  The winter is bleak as an undertaker in a penguin suit.  This winter is as dull, as drab as a witches undergarments and I have had more than enough.  I am done with the pretending and the waking to grey. The first signs of a daffodil has me in giddiness but sadly the yellow hope stops there. The sun she is weak and listless.  And I could just sink into another series, or mope on the sidewalk waiting for the bus.  But no … I to the gorgeous words of my favourite bloggers, mostly women, who pen stories of Parisian apartments and Capetonian beaches, who like me, feel the buggered side of life, but like me … dream of Spring.

As the red nectar in the glass catches the light and the French cafe music croons beside me computer, I will do the same.  Spring, in so many ways, is looming.

Change is afoot. In our Silver Street time, we loom between the empty nest and losing and waiting for an answer, propelling ourselves into new thoughts or ideas of how to do something different, try another avenue, make ourselves purposeful whilst seemingly, looking back … all the time.  This is the Silver Street reality.  We are hovering between roles we played once and what role we take on now. The bloggers I choose to follow are women who are in the same situation, but bless them, have made their thoughts open for us to take inspiration and recognise. This is why I write – I am not alone – and in my situation, in another country, at times directionless, wondering if the next twenty years are going to be God awful, I force myself to account for myself, if that makes sense. In reading their dreams, I form my own, knowing that it is possible. And it is …

I can solo travel to Paris, and I have.  I can walk the shores of Lake Como, and I have.  I can learn to live alone. Never to old to start an new business, change my address … which is what I am going to do. I choose change. 

 Paris breakfasts blog – if only I can paint like her.

If other courageous people can make a change in the Silver Street part of their lives, I can too.

So what am I saying?  Some of you at this time in your lives are settled, and happily so and that is so great – applause all around.  Really!  Some, like me are ‘a little out to sea’ and need to find a new definition of self. And we can because we have help – fellow bloggers with dreams, prospects of croissants loaded with butter and red wine. Before Brexit happens and all the French wine price goes up!

Post divorce, post grieving for lost beautiful people, still in love, moving on. I write because others out there need to know they are not alone.  Silver Streeters need to know anything is possible … and fabulous. Be real, be honest and be challenged, even in the winter, to write, take a leap and dream.  Above all, Silver Streeters, dream and do.

Images: Pintrest


A nostalgic trip to the Drive In.

‘Ag pleeze daddy, won’t you take us to the Drive In?’  Please, please, pretty please?

My father was the drive in man. Not an affectionate person, rather withdrawn, did his best sort of person, but he was my drive in daddy.  Our bonding time, not that he would call it bonding, but it was my daddy and me time. And tonight I miss him.

Small town dreams on the screen, like most of us. I met the world at the Drive In on a Friday night. Friday night date. Fell in love with Robert Redford there I did, and Clint Eastwood (dad thought John Wayne was the ultimate) and Nick Nolte.  Frigging idolised Bruce Lee, poster on the wall perfection.  Life was a by product to the global in love with falling at the Drive In. Went to Monte Carlo, New York, London and Death Valley on a Friday night … and it goes like this … cool was all at the Drive In.

If dad gave the nod to the friends coming along thing … oh frail heart, we were the coolest gang at the counter ordering the vetkoek and cokes.  Doing the shadow puppets against the projection window, swinging on the swings beneath the screen.  Blankets on the hump of tar in mid winter, blanket wrapped, squeaky speaker mode. Scalped by Indians happened – Navaho style. Maria in the Austrian alps, Gigi in her apartment in Paris.  We were there, engrossed dreamers of life beyond school periods and gym clothes. Parents in the car, mom worried about the wind on her lacquered hair, dad still into John Wayne American western drawl style.

Let me show how much I love you.  Back of the lot, no speaker, kissing on the backseat mode.  Midnight Vampires and sneaking friends in the boot while the cows munched behind the fence. My love you see holds hands and cries about leaving. Fights about how romantic Ryan O’Neall is compared to you. ‘Love means never having to say you are sorry’ tissue box on the dashboard.

‘Here’s to the ones who dream
Foolish as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that ache
Here’s to the mess we make.’
Escape from wondering about love and if it will happen, will my wedding be in summer.?  Escape from what I want to be, will they know me, writing my own theme song.  Daddy did more than forget my birthday on the odd occasion, he did more swing me around in my pretty dress – taking me to the drive in, Daddy gave me a window to the world.  He gave me dreaming.  Daddy carried my life into excitement, into possibility and with no words of his own, told me stories that in their speaking, unfolded my wings … at the Drive In.
Tonight, a little nostalgia trip to the Drive In of yesteryear, helps to dust those wings off where they lay in reality and my how those feathers have grown!
Images: Rotten tomatoes, allstar, Jstore daily.

Turning up the stones.

My good friend Georgie and I met up last night at Waterstone’s in Piccadilly.  We usually like to meet at the café in St. James’ park, but winter brings closure at 4pm so the alternative is to meet in book heaven.  I could spend hours there, starting from the top floor and slowly making my way down, each section of course, igniting a resolve to read more, take up drawing, travel to Borneo and speak Mandarin.  I want to learn to sew, make a coffee book of photographs along the Seine and brush up on Satre, Judaism and decorate wedding cakes.  I do little of this, ponder at the studious types absorbed in words and pictures and order my second cuppa chino (which the Italians say you should never order after breakfast.)

Georgie and I are newish London friends and kindred old souls. Our journeys are similar yet different, but heartache lines the fabric of our coats. Our love for London and South Africa and all the spills we took in between binds us. And we are survivors.

Doing away with the usual gripes, I tell her of my various ‘little jobs’ and still trying to find that happy place that continually seems to evade me.  She has found peace in her space. Rather than roll her eyes at my verbalising, she tells me, it’s ok to be doing what I am right now – I’m turning up stones. Some will be good finds and make their way into my pockets, and others will be tossed away. The analogy resonated with me.  Turning up stones.  Exactly.

It reminded me of a scene from ‘Something’s got to Give’ when Diane Keaton walks the beach and picks up stones, turning them over and those she likes, she puts in a jar, the rest go back to the sea. ‘I like the white ones’ she says.

I like the white one’s too.  It’s what we have to do.  Turn up the stones in our path, the feel good ones, be it memories, objects of beauty, material and spiritual icons, jobs tried, lovers met, people we love and add them to our lives.  Hold onto them, put them in the jar.  The dark ones (which some may love too and I am being symbolic here) may be important too – talisman or dark spirit – and they should be tossed to free up more space for the stones that add meaning to our lives.

The point is, the point is, there will be many stones along the way.  Trying new things, unfamiliar territory, light and dark wanderings – these are all stones we need to turn and observe. If by chance at some point in our lives, there are too many stones we feel uncomfortable with, they need to go.  And we try again – read a different book, try a different recipe, start a new career, move house, end a toxic relationship, join a tribe, fall in love, challenge ourselves.  Nothing should stay stagnant and if, like me, the path seems decidedly rocky and precipitous at times, go back to the white ones and take them out of the jar, your pocket to remind you that you have done good, not matter how small the good is, you did good. 

As darkness met me outside (oh dear this darkness thing is at times more like a boulder!) I walked down the road, past the Ritz to catch the tube home and thought, this will be a year of much turning up the stones, like the years before, but this year I am fixed on finding the white ones and holding on for dear life.  The story that is me is going to have a very decorative mantlepiece of pebbles.

Images hdwallpapers and pintrest

The London soup and planning another wedding.

There are incredible highs in living in this city.  London is one of those indescribable places so I am not going to try but when you feel your heart jump and that giddy shudder of glee does happen, most of the time, I would not be anywhere else you beauty bride called Londinium.

And then there are the lows of living in the city. Winter being high up on the list.  Christmas I would spend in no other, but the post, ummm when does the flipping sun come out again blues, are felt more intensely by this sunbeam than others. Feel as if I am under water when I wake in the dark and submerge into it again before the clock strikes four pm. The army of black ants we are.  Walking to the corporate mines, and getting into the soup mix.

Just jumped out of the pot of soup.  The bus.  The one I ran for knowing it would be another twenty minutes of purgatory if I missed it.  Running with your dinner, black Russian coat, hefty bag and boots to rap on the closing door, eyes pleading for a break and if given, huffing to take my place standing with the soup mix on board.  Victoria Beckham may glide into a waiting car with her heels, but the rest of us plebs find space beneath armpits, fighting those shopper wheelie things, some strange specimens who shout and curse to the gods and iPods. The soup in the bus pot reeks of Subway, Maccadees and strong whiffs of curry. The Noodle mix of Russian, Slovakian, Polish, cockney, Italian and French confuddles the brain with memories of my beloved Volvo add to the aching of lungs and heart. How the f…k did I end up in this soup mix on this evening?  Keep thinking of that line ‘James Bond never had to put up with this shit.’ and ‘I’m too old for this’ comes to mind but I don’t go there, alighting intact and walking like a cadaver to the door of my apartment. Fish greet me. They have turned the colour of dull, just like this season.  As they say, it’s wine o’ clock somewhere, oh yes, it’s here!

But I am not totally depressed, the black dog is outside ignoring it’s owner to do the business in the cold.  I am summer minded in the wedding plans being made.  A wedding to plan!

Let it be dark outside, my heart is sunlight in romantic planning for joy.  This accredited Wedding Planner is with book, with timelines and pinterest passion.  Detail in Ribbon shops, floral designs, calligraphy and menu plans.  Everyday is a box of crayons for colouring beauty. Spent the afternoon searching for cake inspiration, theme hues and the personification of love visible.  As I sigh with satisfaction of a travel itinerary well executed, I adore the making of a day of love tangible.  

You see, we all need this in our lives.  Times the reality may be heavy as a winter coat, the day as long as loneliness, but we need to find the small things, the pretty ribbons of love and hope to thread through it.

And in case you are wondering … this Silver Streeter is a Jane of many things.  Travel Consultant, Wedding Planner, cafe apron wearer, landlord and mom. Like many the baby boomer, she has years of experience, torn through life, pain and joy, to multitask and manage her life – she is the CV confounder, the detail muddler, the putting in one box Houdini.  I am beginning to build a life that makes a living doing all the things she loves to do – it ain’t going to be the bonus boss or the trophy collector, but she is struggling and carrying on to create a life she wants to for herself.  To make her children proud, to make herself proud.

Running for the bus and falling into the soup mix is a needs must at the moment.  She learns from every face, every story in it and takes it home to say … I learnt something new today. She gives as any woman does, and she does the job to perfection (she hopes) as any woman would. 

Times getting  into the soup mix to rise above to the glory of a wedding dream and the colours of love are worth it all.

Images: cityam and pintrest.


First Rose pruning in an English climate. My little English darling.

Roses. My love for them is endless.  When I used to live in South Africa, with a large garden, I must have had over a hundred rose bushes scattered throughout. Growing, pruning and watching them bloom was heaven sent.

Remember those days of my parent’s generation when a garden always had ‘a rose garden?’ A little allocated plot for cramming all the hybrids into one area, usually with a small pathway criss-crossing between them?  And of course, looming between the Papa Meillands and Double Delights were always the sturdy, dependable Queen Elizabeth roses with their pink blooms.  Remember that? My mother-in-law used to live on a farm and the local deer would love to decimate her rose garden (one stop nibbling destination) so she would spread human hair around them as a deterrent.  Some of us do love our roses!

When I started gardening in my own home, the trend was to integrate roses throughout your landscape.  Mixing hybrids with floribundas, miniatures and standards – creating swathes of complimentary, blocked colours to avoid the smarties all at the same time effect. Good old dependable, and still one of my favourites, were my icebergs.


I could go on and on about my gardens, three in total, that I poured my love into back then.  Inspired by Piet Oudolf with his roses and grasses combined, with David Austin, Ludwig’s roses – and of course, all the loving transferred to all the pruning, come winter.  It was a military operation, counting some days, tactics observed, sealing of stems, spraying of lime sulphur till you could not take it anymore – but I loved every second of it.

Now, of course, I live in a tiny flat in London and have but one rose.  David Austin’s Litchfield Angel.

And what a beauty she is.  Prolific bloomer, colours of cream and white, smells of cinnamon.  Since she is my first rose baby, I want to keep her alive and do the pruning just right.  A flashback comes to mind.  Many years ago, still pruning like an officer in my own garden,  I was visiting Queen Mary’s garden in Regent’s Park.  Unlike our individual operations on each stem, a tractor came along, and simply sheared all the bushes at a standard height – and off he went. No looking for this node, that angle, just woosh and it was done. Taught me something and I am inclined to feel more liberal this time, but not quite that flamboyant with the shears just yet. So, first things first – the seasons are back to front in my new life (like a lot of things) and pruning is now late February/March.  

There are many tips on how to prune roses on various websites and Youtube.  My appointment is going to be relatively simple to execute:

  • As it is an Old English Rose, gentle pruning is required.
  • Aim for a vase shape and as it is her first year, do not cut back too harshly.
  • Prune any old, diseased and inward growing stems to create an open and free space within.
  • Remove all foliage for less chance of disease.
  • If you choose, spray with Lime Sulpher (mixed with water) to protect the early growth.
  • Sealing of stems is not required in England (and don’t ask me why but this seems to be the general consensus on all rose pruning now.  Any comments and ideas on this one?)
  • Continue light watering and don’t allow the soil to dry out.

By spring the little angel should be budding and ready to bloom.

As I was chatting about cutting the Apron Strings, cutting my little Litchfield Angel will be fine. I intend to find more space to garden again, I need a garden in my life … so dreams in the making.

Images: David Austin, Pintrest