March mud

The path to the compost bin is more of a stream this week, and the boots live by the door in a puddle of their own. Nothing can be dug. Nothing should be dug; the soil is a sponge and walking on it only squeezes it shut.

So the week is for small jobs: washing pots, sorting seed packets by sowing date, sharpening the secateurs on the back step while the rain ticks on the water butt lid.

The first bulbs are up regardless. They do not care about the mud and I admire that.