5 and half hours on the allotment - the misses and I: Today. We're both knackered. I can't think why all I did was to clear out the cold frame of slugs and snails, plant out a few broccoli and brussels (I think that's what they are having mislaid the labels) to replace those eaten by the blighters. I also potted on about 50 runner bean seedlings, 20 aubergine seedlings and the same number of sweet peppers, along with some unknown herb. After that I earthed up my potatoes for the umpteenth time. After panicking for weeks because they hadn't made a show, I'm now rushed off my feet ensuring that the lovely green shoots don't see too much light. I swear that while I was on the allotment they grew a few inches more.
I looked in the green house. Panic: tomato plants as far as the eye can see. Brocolli, Brussels and Cauliflowers seedlings number in their thousands. Not forgetting the chilli peppers - grown from seed for the first time this year and doing remarkably well, thanks for asking.
In the shed, Lesley, my wife; say hello to the nice readers dear - was potting on the sweet corn, more brassica, more tomato seedling and checking on the carrots and parsley, which we've just planted into pots.
Already fed up with asparagus. I know I should be shot for saying that; but it's a big patch and extremely productive. On Monday we had asparagus pizza; that's pizza topped with...asparagus; which goes well with the hot chillis and olives!! That was after Sunday's asparagus risotto, and the night before poached eggs on a bed of steamed asparagus. God so boring!!
Tomorrow I'll try to rehang my clothes; they having fallen out of the wardrobe as the rail collapsed. I hate doing anything practical especially around the house. But needs must.
Tomorrow, my vote will usher in a new millenium. If it's anything like the last one it'll be a damp squib - and:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Will it be a Scottish Tragedy tomorrow night?