The reinventors consider if the majority of the garden makes out of summer alive, that's success. Summer in Perth is brutal. Long, teeth-achingly hot, dry and unpleasant.
It's not a nice heat, it drains one, there are rarely summer rains to break up the unbearable, shimmering blue of the sky and everyone gets crotchety.
The chooks pant and lose their feathers, egg production drops (who could blame them?), the dogs search for shade and cool spots on tiles, the cat whinges if the air-con isn't set at arctic.
The people just complain and sweat and endure.
But summer appears to be waning. Most of the garden has survived. Unlike many chook-owners we know, our whole flock survived, and there are new green shoots in the gardens.
The self-sown garlic is already growing strongly, so we've planted several dozen extra cloves with more planned. Ordinarily garlic wouldn't go in until ANZAC day, but nature is telling us it's time.
The deciduous trees are confused, not sure whether to lose their leaves. We shall refrain from pruning them for another month or so.
It might even rain tomorrow.
