The Wrong Kind of Bacon

It’s a Sunday and it’s a gardening day. Except it isn’t. The rain is constant. Not lashing, or pouring or even just drizzling. Just there all the time like a boring droney person you sit next to at a dinner party. Everything in the garden is just out of reach today because of the rain. It’s going to be hard work even putting some stuff in the wormery.

Instead I focus on making really good bacon sandwiches for the two oldest kids. But teenage kid no. 2 is not happy. It’s a different kind of bacon – from Tesco, in a different wrapping. Free range dry cured bacon. From Devon.

“It’s the wrong kind of bacon, Dad.”

A Shitty Wet Day

Shitty wet day. Took some veg peelings to the compost bin. Carrots and potatoes. Caught one of the cats doing a shit near the pear tree. It’s not our cat. None of the cats are ours, but they all seem to like our garden because it is messily chaotic. I used to feel that the garden was a physical manifestation of my state of mind. But now I think that’s not the case. Our next door neighbour, who had beautiful plants in the front yard, committed suicide a few weeks ago. He’d suffered from depression for a long time and went downhill very fast in the last few weeks. Yet he always tended his garden. This is theorising on the hoof. I haven’t really thought it through.

It’s a sort of Bobby Charlton lawn. The grass is too long, except in the many patches where there is no grass at all. I have put grass seed down but something is eating it. The birds, maybe, or the worms. Or perhaps it is the cats.