After the ice came rain. Days and days of drizzle which woke old father Thames from his slumber and swelled his belly until the riverbanks could hold him no more. Slowly, slowly the waters rose until my little garden stood ankle deep in water. I took this photo late at night and by morning father Thames had sighed and returned in peace to the confines of his bed. My garden lies lost and forlorn. It has done for months. I yearn to be out there planting, digging, sorting... but I am not allowed to do too much at the moment. For eleven months I have had labyrinthitis or benign positional vertigo (I am still waiting for the doctor to decide which it is) and so I become dizzy with too much movement of my head. Or too little. Or, to be honest, any movement. My poor, poor garden lies silently, waiting for my return.