Early birds and guinea pigs

There's something magical about being up when the rest of in the house is asleep.

It's a secret time, precious, a little naughty because it belongs just to you.

Creeping unnoticed into the garden where the air is sweet and the coffee tastes fabulous and there's room to think your own thoughts.

Finally, the rain came and I could launch mission dandelion.

It might appear that I have a tough decision; to weed the dandelions or than the grass?

In a way, I'd planted both.

The grass was seeded onto a tatty mess of East Anglian clay and builder's sand. We'd spent months, elbow-deep, chasing bindweed and thistle roots. Never getting the better of either, of course.

The dandelions are guinea pig relics. Endless bunches were pushed through the chicken wire of their run to be found by happy little furry faces chomping away, seeding new dandelions in their wake.

I try and remind myself of that when there's a new batch to root out.