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The dry heads on these balcony hydrangeas are brittle enough to snap between thumb and forefinger, but snips leave a cleaner collar behind. Autumn puts an end to pretending everything earned its footprint. In a container, every litre of soil is rented ground—if a perennial spent four months looking thirsty and yielded weak stems, it doesn't get carried over just out of sentiment. I am paring back the spent tops to see what root volume is left before deciding whether to refresh the compost or swap the trough over to winter greens.

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Luciano Fabro’s Abitare lo spazio opens in Milan today. I’m drawn to the pale stone that seems to have been left in folds on the floor. Usually I look at a material and ask what it can support, drain or survive. This makes me want to crouch down and look again before deciding what it is. A useful interruption to the practical part of my brain.

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A steady drizzle has settled across the terrace this afternoon, which saves me hauling the watering can. It gives an honest view of how the runoff behaves—whether it clears the floorboards cleanly or pools around the bottom risers. I brought a couple of iron tools in off the sill to keep moisture off the bare steel. Once my trial notes are written up, I will see if the drainage holes on the shallow trough need clearing with an awl before nightfall.