Читать книгу Green Beans and Summer Dreams - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 11

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shite!

Whoever described gardening as relaxing was either lying or rich enough to employ someone to do it for them. I truly have reached the end of my tether this time.

Mind you, I thought I’d reached it in May when the rabbits – toothy little buggers – breached my defences (well, my fences, actually) and made short work of all my beautiful lettuces.

And again in July when my leek crop failed.

But now the beautiful golden onions I harvested in October and stored in the garage (a cool, dark place, the article said) have all rotted away. I kept cutting into them and they were all black and slimy in the middle. Every single one. So now, instead of a lovely crop that will last me through to spring, I’ve got a box of horrors not fit to feed to Old MacDonald’s pigs.

I’m normally calm and rational. I faced a classroom of hormonal teenagers every day of my working life, for God’s sake, and hardly ever ran out of patience.

But seriously, I want to cry with frustration.

Later

I’ve decided to be philosophical about the onions. Gardeners learn by trowel and error, after all. Next time, I’ll make sure I dry them thoroughly before I box them up.

Right now, it’s freezing outside and sleet is turning the already wet soil to mud. But I’m feeling surprisingly content, sitting in my favourite old chair in the warm, lamp-lit kitchen planning the coming year (a large gin and tonic close by). I can’t believe how enthused I get these days, looking at pictures of seed packets. Truly, give me a seed catalogue over a copy of Vogue any day of the week.

Oh Lord, what has my life come to?