Does dashing out to grab a handful of basil and large tomatoes off the plants ten minutes before meals count?
Does dashing out again at near dark to shut a left open gate in the potager count?
Didn’t think so.
Photos. Let me placate with pics.
I have no time to do what I love this week. It irks.
Almost as much as the munched Swiss Chard I saw in the top potager. Blame a left-open gate for the lapse there. If the deer get a taste for the juiciest of greens up at that vegetable garden I’m a goner. The fence is only a metre high.
I have lists. I have clean fingernails. (I did meet a charming chap at my friends’ wedding on the weekend and we compared the grit beneath the nails. He won. I was definitely almost presentable with mine, and that is a sad indictment, I’m usually grot stricken.)
I have tonnes of gravel to shift on the potager paths.
I have a strong yearning to get off this train, go back and get gardening.
And that’s a shame as I’m underneath the Channel Tunnel as I type and getting out will involve a swim.
At least my morning power walks are rather bliss. Autumn is coming. My favourite month.