The tree arrived. I'd wanted a juniper, but they weren't to be had, and although I'd love a lilac we had a sadness when HL thought he understood pruning with the last one. And that was the end of that. So, here was a wee fig tree, in the post, in a parcel, on the doormat - you really don't expect them to survive, do you? But it looked OK, about ten inches tall after a little watering, and with the lovely leaves which I like far more than the fruit.
And then I went for a walk through Old Headington on the way home from failing to find a terracotta pot for it in the local shops (after strenuous, and largely contradictory advice from people I esteem and trust). And there against every south-facing wall, and some not so south, oh yes, I noticed that, were thriving figs, with leaves emerging and budding fruit on the stems. And I thought, like some ghastly bourgeois pushy Oxford mother, "I wonder how long it will be until mine gets like that?"
Coming home, walking along the brook, the Bayswater was in rather a torrent, most unusually for it - very heavy rain on the hillsides yesterday, I imagine. And there was a robin dashing across to its nest on the safer side. And the meadow - park - recreation ground - whatever it is - was strewn with dandelion heads in full fluff.
And I thought, I ordered nature to be delivered in a box.