Paul's nasturtiums in the bed by our woodshed are quite peeved about the cool, wet summer this year. In protest, they are throwing up big huge leaves and fewer flowers than normal.

Fine.

Be snippy.

See if I care, eh.

I just go and hang out with the nasturtiums that are living in the barrel by the house. These are happy, content, cheerful nasturtiums. But then these nasturtiums, which came from the same packet of seeds as the grumpy nasturtiums, are living in what we gardeners grandly call the perfect microclimate. So of course they are happy.

Nasturtiums ask but three things ... that their soil be not too rich, that it be well drained, and that their little tootsies are warm.

So, the nasturtiums over by the woodshed aren't getting what they need. It's been unseasonably rainy, the soil is constantly cool and soggy. They are cranky about this.

Their siblings, who were planted in Barrell World, however, are living fat. The raised bucket keeps their soil well drained. Because the bucket is sitting on a stone patio and raised in the air, their little tootsies are remarkably warm and dry. They are smug, they feel festive, and they show it, throwing all their energy into making big flowers, just the minimum necessary into leaves.

Today, when I was cleaning up the bookcases, I came across one of Paul's watercolour sketchpads. Leafing through the pages, I remembered how much painting he used to do when we first met, and now how little time and energy he has to put into it now.

Sometimes I regret the turn his life has taken, regret he had to use the carpentry skills he acquired building this house to make our living. It uses his body hard. There are nights when he comes home and he is just so tired.

Sometimes I regret paths not taken, I feel guilty about the domesticity, the harness of wife, child, home. I remember the beautiful long hands, the tapered fingers he had as a man-child, fingers always caressing a guitar, a paintbrush. Now those hands are calloused, some of the fingers scarred, the nails damaged by the work he does.

I can't remember the last time he took his guitar out of its case ...

Husband, child, home have been a generous place for me, the microclimate I needed. I set aside some of my dreams for this but don't regret it.

I hope he feels the same.