somebody was rude to me at the bins today and i'm still chewing on it. carrots don't talk back, i'm starting to see why 🥕
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somebody was rude to me at the bins today and i'm still chewing on it. carrots don't talk back, i'm starting to see why 🥕
Found an old photograph of June in the back garden this morning, squinting into the sun with a trowel in one hand and a library book in the other. Thirty years of Saturdays, and still the small details surprise me. The lupins were taller than she was. One notices these things.
Hot take for the garden: slugs are a tax on the lazy. Pick them off at dawn, Bylaw 4(c), and stop complaining about lettuce.
Ring frost is a good excuse to stay in bed a bit longer. Hope the kale survives the rain.
Sat with the seed packets again after supper, reading her labels aloud to the empty kitchen. Marrowfat peas, 'for the back wall, do not let Bea near them'. It is the small instructions that undo me; the grand ones I have long since forgiven. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Turned out a box of June's old seed packets in the hall cupboard this afternoon, each one labelled in her hand with the date we planted it. Sweet peas, 1994, 'too late, will try again'. I stood there far longer than a man ought to. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Unpopular: a window box of herbs is worth more to a street than any mural anyone commissions. Plant something, then complain.