I dried washing outside!

I can hear the, "Yeah, so what?" bulbs pinging on all over the place but this is early February on the West coast of Scotland and I dried a heavy cotton wash outside. We should be having lashing rain and gales. Instead it is cold at nights with a dry wind and sun during the day. Lovely.
Cold temperatures always seem to be accompanied by beautiful sunrises. Sometimes the loch and sky glow with flaming orange.

The intense colour lasts for only a few minutes before fading to more subtle lilacs and then greys and gold that echo my winter garden.

One phrase I frequently read in gardening mags is that winter allows you to see the bare bones of a garden. I think my poor patch has scoliosis, rickets and brittle bone disease, but I can at least see the bare bones of the hydrangea mopheads. They have turned into delicate little puffs of antique lace.

I can't understand why hydrangeas have been labelled unfashionable and unpopular when they work so hard. My bushes flowered prolifically all summer in a radiant patchwork of electric blues, shocking pinks and lilacs. They flowered right through Autumn, getting frosted by degrees until December turned them into these beautiful skeletons. How can something so gorgeous be unfashionable?

Smudge has resumed her neglected-cat-inna-jug routine. We're having a slight dispute over what constitutes cat food. You'd think she'd be pleased that, after a summer on the Coops economy cat chow, she's been upgraded to Felix's, "As Good As it Gets." Ha! Apparently cats don't want, "nutritionally balanced, tender, delicious, meaty steaklets, cooked in their own juices for an unforgettable taste and aroma". A cat served with this dross will look with contempt at the offending handmaiden, sniff the dish with utter disdain and walk away with a fastidious shake of a hind foot. What cats really want is mango, papaya and passion fruit yoghurt, or cheese and ham sandwiches or hot buttered toast (pet food companies please take note). Cats who are denied their share will go and sulk by the compost bin and plan careful revenge, which usually involves eating a bellyful of grass and regurgitating it noisily all over the sofa.

Couldn't have a post without a robin pic.

But guess who has the last word.