Having woken at 5.30 a.m., it seemed churlish to ignore the blue sky and I got up, had a hearty breakfast and went for a walk. This is positively the last time I'll pick blackberries!
There they were in all their shiny, bobbly, sweet and sour black splendour, literally dropping off the bushes.
I fought through thistles, nettles and Rosebay Willowherb, all of which had made a pact with the blackberry bushes to make it difficult to harvest them. "Yah yah yah! Go 'way!"
Nowt like a pair of stout denim trousers on these occasions; their blandishments fell on deaf legs.
Parakeets have found Barnet (screeeech!!!) but they haven't found the blackberries, yet.
Everything smells gorgeous early in the morning. Someone's honeysuckle had escaped from their back garden and twined itself around a lilac tree. What a fantastic scent! Further on, even the simplest of Leylandii hedges smelt tangy and delicious as the breeze wafted past it.
It was already hot and the dog-walkers were in t-shirts and trainers. The sky was enormous this morning (has it grown?) and the fields were different because they have been mown for hay.
You could smell that too.
Like a happy clappy idiot, I showed my tub of blackberries to the woman at the till in the supermarket. She didn't mind. She told me how hard it was to decide between apple pie and apple crumble with the apples from the tree in her garden. You know what, I almost forgot the apples in my bag. People have piled them up at the edge of their gardens and the pavement and say 'Help Yourself', so I did.
Wormy, bruised, but real: a bit like me, I suppose.
I'm armed with new detective novels and the day's paper, resting my voice a bit before more singing and waiting to see what the weather has in store. It's either going to be too hot to go out, or too wet to go out.
The house is a mess with stuff in grumpy piles all over the floor but we don't do tidying up when the temperature is over 30 degrees, do we?