A Very English Summer

The thing about Summer here is that it’s, well, not so hot and, yes, rainy. And, unlike the chronic sufferers of the Twainian coldest Winters in San Francisco, you can’t drive 20 minutes and end up somewhere hot.

On the upside, this makes for a very green country—rolling hill after rolling hill of lush, luxuriant, Technicolor (or colour, as the case may be) green. My office is nestled in a park that boasts endless stretches of herbage upon which countless bunnies cavort in gluttonous delight.

Traveling around pretty England is a feast of emerald to jade to sage. Everywhere in England is green. Everywhere, that is, except my front garden.

Perhaps it’s not maliciousness on my lawn’s part but a kindly desire to make a California girl feel at home. I look out my front window and here and there see tufts of tawny-trying-to-be-green almost-lawn. But mostly it’s a sad state of miserable, half-hearted growth. It’s my own mini golden hills of California, but without the sun.

I’m sure it has absolutely nothing to do with gardening skills.