You can take the boy out of the working class, but you cannot take the working class out of the boy and this alone is a reason to be thrilled to be living in England, where class preoccupations are alive and well and where class is defined by a number of complicated variables, none of them including income. This is near inexplicable to our cousins the Yanks who rather simple-mindedly move people up and down the class ladder depending on income changes. I say this in the fondest and most endearing way; I personally love the black-and-white (trash) American class views. Life is much simpler there than in good old England, but the intricacies of interpersonal skills are far less subtle also.
Despite the jungle-like aspect of my front, and especially back, gardens, I rather like sitting on my lone deckchair to knit or read and not long ago I insisted on planting bulbs that were three months past their planting range. No bother of mine. The other day I spotted a flower coming up through the carefully tended rubble. Problem is: I don’t know what I planted. So if you know what this thing is, please let me know.
It goes to show that nature (and human nature) is a resilient thing, despite the adverse conditions. If I repeat Florida to myself enough times, I may actually turn the jungle into a garden you know.
