RichmondRound

The garden after eight o'clock

The light stays longer now. You notice it most in the garden, where the sun slips behind the houses but the sky holds on. The roses are showing off, the David Austins throwing scent across the lawn, the climbers heavy against the fence.

This is the week for it. The week when you move the table outside and leave it there. When you text friends on a Tuesday and say come over Friday. When you buy too much ice and not enough tonic.

Someone brings fairy lights. Someone else brings speakers. The children stay up late, then disappear indoors to their screens. The adults settle in. Conversations fork and rejoin. The wine goes down easy. The roses darken to silhouettes but the scent gets stronger.

By ten o’clock the sky is indigo and the garden feels like a room. By eleven someone suggests one more drink. By midnight you are whispering so you do not wake the neighbours, laughing at nothing, wondering why you do not do this more often.

You will do it again next week.

What's your favourite thing about a summer evening in the garden?

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The Bench

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