This is the time of year, which I enjoy the most, and a particular favourite pastime of mine, is watering my garden flowers on a summer evening.

The water seems to bounce off the heads of the flowers, as if they are taking a shower, before it falls to the soil to nourish the roots.

This year, my inner peace and reverie at this pleasant moment has been dampened, quite literally, by a small flow of water onto my legs from a hole in my watering can.

It means of course that the function of this plastic water holding device is compromised and it cannot fulfill its function as effectively as I ought to expect it to, and therefore the implement will have to be replaced.

In the meantime, however, it does still perform its function quite adequately, and although there is the small amount of wasted water, in the grand scheme of things this is not a waste of environmental proportions worth worrying about.

The hole in my watering can teaches me that despite the less than perfect delivery, the water does still reach and nourish my flowers and I still do enjoy the moments I have with the colour and array of the blooms, particularly my roses which I have named after female family members including my mother, mother-in-law, and grandma (deceased).

The small trickle of water on my legs, in some ways, enables me to feel into the experience that I am giving the flowers, and I sense that all I can do in life, is bring the best I have at any given time and that this will fluctuate day by day.

Safe to say, I am not emotionally attached to my watering can with a hole in it, so I will replace it, but:-

Bravo, I say, for keeping going, despite your wounds;

Bravo, I say, for keeping going despite your impending doom;

Bravo, I say, for having been a provider of life and sustenance to my flowers despite your own weakness.

My next blog will be: “Murray Mint”

William Defoe