The randomness seemed to persist through the week: unnatural fogs, erroneous chamaeleon-grouting, a persistent inability to cook anything sensible.
I am temporarily one up on the garden, having got the grass cut in a dry interval, and having luckily failed to spread a dead rat all over the garden with the mower – I missed the camouflaged corpse by a whisker. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
But as I potted up some dwarf beans in hope of a late crop, I felt a certain affinity with the rejects:
sometimes it is difficult to know which end is up.