I miss my garden. I miss watching the seasons change through leaves that appear and disappear. I miss waiting for the first arums to bloom, the first spider lilies, the first roses. I miss digging in the earth for stress relief or pure pleasure, miss picking veggies & herbs fresh from the garden for supper. I miss my white mulberry tree and the white-eyes, starlings and cape canaries that dropped by for fruit.

I do still have a few pots of things I brought with me when I moved. They're clustered around the bird bath, which I have yet to see a single bird take advantage of in this building and brick encrusted complex - it used to be feather-full to the brim each morning and evening. The spider lilies usually bloom by now, as do the arums - but not in their pots this year. Perhaps the location's wrong, or they haven't had enough water. It's simply not the same.

I miss the quiet sunsets, the damping down of the day to the sound of guinea-fowl (and nothing else). I miss my view and the outdoor space - although it wasn't entirely private it provided green and shade and place for visiting kids to run.

I miss watching the seasons at plant level, and dirt level, at horizon level. Now the only indication of autumn is the pile of shed leaves swirling on my bricked up drive...