In the absence of anything to add to my novel to be, I have been working in the garden, trying to make it look pretty so to raise my house price for when I sell. I can, for the first time in nearly two years, see where I've been. There are flower beds and peas growing up their little bamboo frame. I have tomatoes neatly spaced out with basil in between, apparently they grow well together. The only sadness is the failure to germinate of my two tones zucchini seeds and 3/4 of my sweet corn.

There is something truly satisfying about growing your own food. I am far more interested in the development of flowers on my little pumpkin plant than I am in the dozen or so stock running under the garage window. I pass the red robin "shrub" without so much as a glance, but I stop and look at both fejoas, watching as the little red flowers have disappeared, to be replaced with small green swelling growths I can't wait to collect.

I have decided to plant radishes in small patches, a few at a time, so to prolong the season, and not find my self over run with them (I have some two hundred seeds, so it is a very real possibility).

All this effort seems a waste, seeing I may not even be there to harvest much of what I plant, but it feels nice to be out in the sun, with dirt under my nails and sweat running down my face.

And then I look at eh photos of houses in the area I am looking to buy in, to be closer to the university so I can avoid using my car. The gardens are tiny and often the yard is paved over. I don't want to live in a sterile concrete box, if I did I would be looking for a town house, not an actual house. Besides, once I'm settled I'm getting chickens, I'll need the grass.