That’s it – yesterday was spring, today is summer. It’s hot, the garden is exploding into green before my eyes, where’s the sunscreen? At 8 a.m. this morning, before the crowds, I bought $80 worth of vegetables from Jay’s garden centre down the road – a bit of lettuce, a few peppers and cukes, strawberries, parsley, lavender, eggplant, cherry tomatoes and two kinds of basil. Planted some, will wait to plant the rest till I’ve made a garden plan. Then I cleaned out the garden shed, getting out spades, fertilizer, chair cushions. Summer!

Two hours this afternoon doing the season switch – moving the wool to cupboards and drawers, getting out tank tops and sandals. (And getting rid of stuff that’s too small – finally accepting that those pants, those shorts, now that I have no waistline, will never fit me again. OUT!)

Now I’m in paradise – the quiet city, the lush garden, baby sparrows learning to fly perched on the lilac or the fence under the worried eyes of their parents. Just gardened while listening to Eleanor Wachtel interview one of my favourite writers in all the world – Alan Bennett – and laughed out loud. It is a fine world.

Last night, JM and Richard came over to watch “All the Way” about LBJ’s first months, the extraordinary backstage machinations it took to pass the Civil Rights Act – convincing both Martin Luther King and the impatient leaders of the black community, and the racist old boys of the white Democratic south, to toe the line. The show paid warm tribute to Lady Bird, who was a political force herself as well as a loving wife and mother. A fascinating drama beautifully produced, particularly the phenomenal performance of Breaking Bad‘s Bryan Cranston as LBJ – the actor vanishes into the role, a tour de force.

And then we watched the last hour of the Peggy Guggenheim documentary – TV at its best and an evening with two of my dearest friends. I got HBO because Jon Stewart announced he’d do shows there – which have yet to appear. My son watches Game of Thrones when he comes over; I can’t, it’s too gruesome. But last night was wonderful.

Grow, little basil, grow.

P.S. I hate to even mention it but feel I must because everyone else has. Justin Trudeau – understandably, in my eyes – grew impatient with the slowness of proceedings in the House of Commons and tried to move things along. I would have done the same. But unfortunately for the most visible man in the country, things did not go as planned, and now every pundit, including, predictably, the gloating Margaret Wente, feels the need to weigh in. Look, I’m a bit worried too about the many photo ops, wondering who’s running the shop while Justin does – yes – important things like hug Syrian immigrants and beam at Obama. It’s all eye candy for us Canadians after the nuclear winter we endured with the Man with the Frozen Eyes and Helmet Hair. There are certainly things to worry about. But the fuss about this event is ludicrous.

And speaking of worrying – there’s a piece in the Washington Post about Trump signalling the rise of fascism in the U.S. Now that’s worth writing about.

And now, back to focussing on my tomatoes.