Much in January

Glad I moved to Northumberland. If I'd stayed in Yorkshire I'd have been up to me pointy hat in the River Calder come Boxing Day. I daresay all my old gnome mates are coping, wheeling the sludge away in their little wheelbarrows.

I see 'er's come out of 'ibernation. It were almost as warm as spring today and 'er comes wandering down the garden seriously considering 'anging the washing outside. Just as well 'er didn't, cos it came down like Niagara Falls this afternoon. Anyway, 'er did what 'er always does at this time of year, skipping about like the welly boot fairy admiring the primulas, the dwarf irises, the one and only snowdrop we've 'ad so far, and anything else foolhardy enough to come up before the middle of March. Honest, 'er as conversations with 'em. Then off she goes back indoors again.

Thirty seconds later 'er leans out the back door and calls, 'Morning Much'. Oh, and a very happy Monday to you too, missus, good of you to mention it and fit me into your busy day. Oh Much, says 'er, you know how it is. Plants, they change, they come and go. Turn your back and they're fading, or the beasties have got 'em. But not you, Much, you're always the same. My good old reliable Much.

I still don't know if it's a compliment or not.