When chaos surrounds us, grow things.

The ten-for-a-pound narcissus are now lush, green and eight inches tall. 

Clearly they know nothing of backstops or lack of thereof; imminent weather beasts from the east and the north; or the apparent risks of deal or no deal.

In fact the garden, although crunchier than I'd like, remains, to a plant, completely unaware of the chaos in which we risk becoming enveloped. And chaos it surely is.

This week I visited a friend who asked me to help him find someone to do a couple of hours in his garden. My friend has recently returned from hospital with a new hip. 

"Astonishing," he said, as we sipped our tea. "My brother was in one of the beds on the other side of the ward!"

There was a pause. And then another before I replied rather hesitantly:

"But, er, I thought you told me that your brother had passed away last summer?"

"Exactly!" he said, "I hope to god that his dementia hasn't been resurrected along with him!"

I turned to look at the juniper through the French windows and we discussed pruning, and clearing up, and plants that could be relied upon to come back year after year.