What an exhausting weekend. 

I feel wan from cheering cyclists, geeing up gymnasts, supporting sailors, hollering at hammer throwers, shouting at swimmers and rooting for rowers. Very exciting, very lump-in-the-throaty and I am refusing to be cowed by Emma T and her Sap-O-Meter. Congratulations to all – even though I find the title ‘Team GB’ a bit annoying. (Incidentally, Michael Phelps is extraordinary but I suspect that a long train journey might want for sparkling repartee.)

Rowing must be about the most painful thing that any human being can voluntarily put themselves through – apart, perhaps, from careless use of blenders or DIY vasectomy. I had a brief calling as a rower : however, being both canny and weedy I was a cox. No weight lifting or early morning running was required instead the cox’s job involved sitting in the back shouting, counting and steering. The responsibility is quite onerous when you remember that you are the only person facing the right way.

It was neither a long nor distinguished career. We trained (they sweated, I smoked a lot of Number 6 behind the boathouse in order to remain thin) and practised until we had reached a peak of fitness and were declared ready to pit our skills in public. Shining with keenness, the rowers wearing freshly pressed shirts and gartered socks (the acknowledged cox’s uniform in those days, incidentally, was a pair of grey worsted trousers and a tweed jacket) we turned up full of expectation and dreams of glory. 

However, on this, my first competitive outing I succeeded in sinking another boat in full view of the spectators during a public regatta. Not just a quiet swamping but the complete demolition of the entire front of the boat. We rowed away leaving the opposition chest deep in cold water in the middle of the River Thames.  

Soon after we had reached dry land the rumour went round that eight large chaps, dripping water were looking for me. I suspected that they were not looking to buy me luncheon. and that perhaps the time for diplomacy and apology was past. The only sensible alternative, therefore, was to hide under a seat in the back of the team bus until the danger was past. I was not asked back. 

I wish it would stop bloody raining.

The picture is of a little vignette of box hedge, pleached lime and Pennisetum Hameln. We cut the box using a curvy template we cut from a sheet of plywood. Looks very fine. I am listening to The Ballad of Jed Klampett by Lester Flatt.