I should be writing. I should be editing the church magazine. I should definitely be doing housework. I should be bottling a batch of beer (I shouldn't be moving the rosehip wine to a demijohn which I accidentally did a week early this morning). I should be reviewing books for Good Reads. I should be writing my course. Why am I knitting a new sock?
I went to Allotment Major after over a fortnight last Thursday, and regretted not bringing a machete to hack my way through the weeds. It's been warm and wet up here. However, three bags of veg home, not including the neep I gave one of my neighbours and the onions I tied to the fence to dry. We've eaten the cauliflower and the peas and the gooseberries, and frozen the radishes (good in stirfries later if you blanch and freeze them), and the courgettes are prepared for this evening. The mangetout are on the menu for tomorrow night. We may never get through the potatoes. There was a lettuce lying on the kitchen bench being rather muddy - they keep better that way, with the earth still on, but I prefer them to be on something rather than the bench, so I carefully removed it to an appropriate plate and carefully cleaned the bench. Number Two Cat then decided to jump up to the sink and then walk along the bench, but he didn't realise that the edge of the plate was over the edge of the bench and stood on it. Cat and lettuce each described beautiful double somersaults before falling on the floor. Cat embarrassed: earth once again everywhere.
There are over two hundred tomatoes growing in the kitchen. I hope they ripen, or we'll be supplying the neighbourhood with green tomato chutney.