I don’t know why I put myself through it. The last two or three years in the vegetable plot have been uniformly awful, for various reasons. Today was a busy one, but there I was this evening, mixing up compost and pushing it through the sieve.
I’ve been pretty mean with it though; most of the seeds in the box are on the elderly side, and I am not sure they will germinate, though I am poking them in. Having poked, I don’t seem to have anywhere to put them and they are cluttering up the kitchen.
In view of the recent past, for twopence I’d turf the lot. So why do I feel hope creeping up on me? Obstinacy? Keeping the faith? Energised by newt-watching? Or just because the primroses and violets are so ridiculously pretty?
All good reasons, really.