Shitty wet day. Took some veg peelings to the compost bin. Carrots and potatoes. Caught one of the cats doing a shit near the pear tree. It’s not our cat. None of the cats are ours, but they all seem to like our garden because it is messily chaotic. I used to feel that the garden was a physical manifestation of my state of mind. But now I think that’s not the case. Our next door neighbour, who had beautiful plants in the front yard, committed suicide a few weeks ago. He’d suffered from depression for a long time and went downhill very fast in the last few weeks. Yet he always tended his garden. This is theorising on the hoof. I haven’t really thought it through.

It’s a sort of Bobby Charlton lawn. The grass is too long, except in the many patches where there is no grass at all. I have put grass seed down but something is eating it. The birds, maybe, or the worms. Or perhaps it is the cats.