There has been produce this year, but is the game worth the candle? Maybe, if it’s peas. Or sweetcorn, a tad under-ripe, flawless, five minutes from plant to plate.
Otherwise … I’ve found myself dropping into poetry:
I wish I liked the garden green
I wish I liked its strict routine
I wish I liked to dig and hoe
I wish the blasted plants would grow
And when hacking nettles in the sun
I wish I thought, “What jolly fun!”
With apologies to Sir Walter Raleigh (the other one).