Three exuberant, young mothers , side by side, sweep past in the middle of Berkeley Road : each pushes a pram and in each pram is a small baby- a flotilla of motherhood.
On the terrace at Sankey's the helpful waitress says "enjoy", as she serves our lunch, an invitation, which a few years ago you would not have heard outside New York.
The fuschia in our garden is of the variety which grows wild in the hedgerows of Cornwall and the west of Ireland. This one in particular has been with me for at least 30 years, having accompanied me to this house from the last one, when it inhabited a pot. In the old days it used to die down every winter. For the last few years it has not only survived but has defied attempts to eradicate it. It must now be about 12 ft high. To me it is greatly to be preferred to the garish varieties bred for colour-mad gardeners, and I no longer begrudge it the space it occupies.
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