All is well in the garden.
It's hardly a 10-acre field, but this little plot has the aforementioned veg in it, along with some peas.
Elsewhere in the garden chitted potatoes are forcing their way through the soil above them, ready to burst forth. I can practically hear them.There are peppers, and chillies, and tomatoes on the go, and soon there will be beetroot and beans.
Don't tell her, but under Older Daughter's bed a darkened box of potent compost is about to burst forth in a flush of mushrooms.
Mrs H (pictured in the spotty wellies) and I have been tending the soil, with a little help from Reg, whose idea of assistance is to drop his ball in the path of the spade and keep doing it until you stop what you are doing and play.
Blackberries and raspberries have been planted, too.
We got the grass cut and even got the shed tidy.
We even went to Trago Mills, a place we had both sworn never to visit again the moment the girls got too big to want to go on the Pirate Ship. We bought things in their garden centre.
It must be the sudden onset of spring.
Mike the gardener hasn't been in touch yet, and all down the cul-de-sac people are beginning to fret.
Bowling George is about to succumb and mow his own unruly lawn. I had to do the same.
If Mike doesn't get in touch soon, we are all going to have to up our game this summer.
We spoke nicely to the big spiders in the shed, by the way. The one guarding the golf clubs must have been out doing whatever spiders do when they aren't just standing there. The one in the other corner, behind the box of golf balls, ran first one way and then the other when we moved the box and exposed him.
Mrs H was reassuring, and leaned a piece of wood into the corner to give him a shadow to hide in again.
Good karma.
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