Vodka and tonic, I think

Another day begins with noticing the absence of something. Bastard Bambis have chomped the tops off all my tulips and two of my hyacinths. Again I ask: What the fuck? I’ve grown bulbs in pots by the back door before and never had a problem. Bastards. (I think I may have said this already.)


Fortunately, the other pot – the one in the fenced-in garden has survived.


Well, now that I’m down here – and seeing as it’s stopped raining and is actually a lovely day – I might as well do something.


Yeah, okay, doesn’t look like much, but the first batch of peas have now been planted – both shelling peas and mangetout (which, I learn after baffling the man in the garden shop, are, for reasons I cannot fathom, called snow peas here). Fingers crossed.

Oh, look. The fig tree does appear to be staging a comeback.


Decide it will probably do better if I transplant it into a pot which isn’t as thin and cheap as the one I originally used. (According to the instructions which came with it when Irmani and I bought it last year, fig trees are more successfully grown in pots. We shall see. I’m thinking figs this year are unlikely.

Take a break for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Is that enough for today? Oh, sod it. Go to the shed and get the shovel.


Some hours (and much dirt in my fingernails and on the knees of my jeans) later, I’ve weeded and dug over the second bed.

I need more manure and (oops, nearly forgot) some lime. If the forecast is correct (oh, ha, ha), it’s going to be a warm sunny weekend. Just the right weather for preparing the soil.

Back in the house, two questions remain to be answered.

Is my ass going to be as sore tomorrow as it was last time? God, I hope not.

Shall I have another cup of tea? Nah. Vodka and tonic, I think.