My early morning assessment of the garden found the pendulum swaying towards the negative. Not a gentle nudge over the line from hope to despair but a vigorous swing into gloom. Nothing escaped my critical eye; weeds setting seed at every corner (didn’t I do that area on Friday?), plants pale and wanting (you have been fed and watered what is your problem?), mollusc lace abounded (it is bone dry, you should be hiding in a wall somewhere not munching the youngsters!), piles of debris (on the list to be shifted to the bonfire), crusty soil and crackling pots (a little nocturnal rain would be much appreciated). It appeared that over night some sadist had adjusted the speed of the down escalator we are trying to climb from “Tired Three Toed Sloth Mode” to “Usain Bolt Trying His Best” leaving us sprawling in a heap at the bottom. Walking back towards the potting shed for my first Martini of the day I passed the Tennis Court Bank. If you squint your eyes up tight and you don’t have your specs on it doesn’t look too bad. This revelation hearlded a shift in disposition and the moodometer shifted to “No problem”. My step may even have sprung. As this was all before 9.00am and it made for a very constructive day. As my cockiness is invariably followed by a monumental fall, generally into a stinky dung heap, I am presuming tomorrow will be another day.