Rain. Twelve hours on Friday night. Twelve drenching, soaking, tank-filling hours. A tin roof and pelting rain - there can be no better sound to boost one's wellbeing, surely. The soil, though, it remains dust bowl dry. I think, on Saturday afternoon, that I should worry about this lack of water, but there are kilos of blueberries to pick, tiny, sweet golden tomatoes and, best of all, milky baby zucchini and their blossoms. All surviving without me and my army of watering cans. Bliss.