The weather forecasters were wrong.  In my corner of the UK the weather was gorgeous. On Monday I got two or three hours gardening done in my patch of the garden  then rain and thunder stopped play.  Yesterday afternoon when I had time, it was too wet to contemplate gardening.

Today, Wednesday, I was out with spade, fork, rake, secateurs and wellie boots on, before 9.am.  Elevenses, was an invitation out for coffee and a fruit scone.  A quick personal transormation was called for. I couldn't go out with my hair all over the place, dirt smeared all over my tee shirt and looking like I'd come up from a coal pit.

At half past two, famished and parched but with a glow,  I stopped for light refreshment and listened to the afternoon play on the radio.  Rested and re-energised, I went out again to work in the garden. 

There was as much, if not more evidence of a bio massacre, than on Monday.  And yay!  Hubby took out, as much as he could,  of the rose tree, (grotty and diseased) that I had been trying to get rid of for years.  Another bushy perennial had taken over too much ground and had securely rooted under the path.  What a pain.  Again, hubby put his best shoulder foward, guillotining more of the bush trunk than I had intended.  A stump is left, from which, without a doubt, more problems will grow.  I shall have to watch that one.  The piles of gardening debris will mean  a trip to the communal domestic waste disposal facility. 

At half past four, having raked some fresh top soil around the patch and forked it in, I took off  my wellies, put everything away, tidied up me again and sunk into an armchair, where, I literally had forty winks followed by a refreshing vanilla red bush tea. 

Then I heard the weather forecaster telling me that it had rained on and off all day here.  Well, I've got news for you, it didn't.  However, I cannot vouch for the temperatures tonight.  They're forecast to drop to as low as 2 degrees centigrade.