Op North was good. Highlights included riding the 125 bike, seeing Bill’s wood, and eating halibut.

It’s come to my attention that a chap only needs two sets of clothes. One he wears, the other he washes. The washed clothes he hangs outside to dry. Bringing them inside to finish the drying process off, he suspends them from some handy horizontal slats outside the bathroom. Fresh from his morning shower on the day of changeover, he reaches upwards, slides off the sweet smelling, newly laundered articles, and slips into them. He then scoops up his collection of soiled, Billy-reeking linen and takes it out to his washing machine, where he adds his trusty Yongee Ball, and the cycle begins again.

Many suggest this should be a daily process, particularly for old goats. Personally, at this time of year, I recommend a twice weekly changeover.

Of course, this is for chaps who do their own washing. Chaps who don’t, and don’t send it out to reappear in sealed brown packets by special delivery, and don’t frequent their local laundrette, but find their folded linen appearing magically on their shelves on a regular basis, don’t know what they’re missing. For this, they remain eternally grateful.

As we say in Barnham, “Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”

Up to a point, Lord Copper.

I wouldn’t have a clue. My “Friendship” was bestowed upon me by a Higher Power.

Kew Gardens is the spiritual home of all gardeners, and regular visits must be made in accordance with divine decree. To sit within the Palm House, absorbing the essential energies of flowers and plants from around the globe, is to feel replete. Not to visit Kew, particularly during the inclement month of February, is unthinkable for any but the most boorish denizens of earth.

The cost and effort involved pales into insignificance besides the inestimable value obtained from rubbing shoulders with fellow enthusiasts of the greatest art known to mankind. For those that want to “join”, we “Friends of Kew”, known far and wide from our embossed “cards” blessed by “Management”, have free entrance bestowed on us and our accolytes.

Praise be to the turnstile operators.

We all set off for Kew on a cold Sunday morning but Bertie the box broke down half way there so after being towed back home and starting off again in Rodney, Geoff and I spent less time gazing in awe at the crocuses than we might otherwise have done. Although I wasn’t present to witness the speeches, I believe the rest of the party stated in no uncertain terms that they had never enjoyed themselves so much in their lives, bitter wind notwithstanding.

Many lovely orchids. It was too early for the camelias, sadly.

Hopefully, we’ll return in April.

Meanwhile, Bertie sits outside in disgrace.