It has not been a spectacularly good start to the growing season so far. I had to retrieve the pots of seeds I'd sown from the cold frame because it was, erm, too cold. I tried putting them indoors next to the radiator under the bathroom window on an old Oxo crate. Some of them actually came up - then mysteriously disappeared again. All that remains are five tiny, pathetic tomato plants. Down on the allotment things are marginally better. The rhubarb I've been trying to grow for the last few years obviously just needed to be soaked for a month. If only I'd known a little sooner I would not have suffered the humiliation of being the only person ever to fail to grow rhubarb. The asparagus, on the other hand is as fat as fenceposts, rather like the couch grass.
Back at home it is like a scene from the Good Life. Bread baked, stock on the boil, a glass of cider each. Then he goes and gets a few skeins of coir and starts work on an old sugan he found abandoned this weekend; a wet Bank Holiday is always good for scavenging.
Didn't do a bad job between us. I even like the way the coir changes colour halfway through.
Roll on Saturday when I can be thoroughly unworthy and indulge in a double serving of The Bridge.