And the garden; oh, the garden


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).

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