It’s not over until the fat lady sings

My cheeks are cold.
I’ve just taken the old dog out for a run under the crispy brown beech leaves.
The chestnuts are rotting, the new crop is sprouting and as I hugged my tree I heard my voice shouting
IT’S NOT OVER UNTIL THE FAT LADY SINGS.
They’ll ne no joining in for me then.
As for self sufficiency. Wally Jopson, a retired milk man from The north east used to dig, plant, reap and sew for us.
He loved the garden, we loved him, the garden used to be owned by a woman who grew every thing from carrots to rhubarb consequently the earth is dark brown, crumbly and magical., You don’t need green fingers the earth does it for you.
Wally, planted, pruned and tended the crops then shared it between himself and us.
A dinner comprising home-grown potatoes, carrots, peas and beans is – as you probably know – unbeatable.
In fact I parted company with my Best Man when I saw the way he chopped into my new Maris Pipers. He revealed himself to be a man of aggressive leanings with vicious tendencies. I sent him packing never to prick my parsnips again.
I have several photographs of Wally with his foot on a fork, Wally with his cap on the back of his head holding up a bunch of perfectly formed beetroot, Wally kicking the dog off the onion patch.
Shortly after the arrival of Jackson, 20 years ago, Wally left a note on the kitchen table.
‘I’m not doin’ your garden any more, I’m not having a dog pee all over me radishes.’
I cried for a week.
I had two women. GROWING CONCERN, who inspired me to create a comedy drama about them. They were neat and tidy until one of them ran off with the other ones husband. You couldn’t have written it!
Then I had two lovely Lesbians who made a path, dug a pond, gave me a fountain as a present after which they promptly left to open up a Post Office in Cumbria.
I employed a so-called gardener who turned out to be a professional bullcomposter.
Then I tried to do it myself – Yeah!
Well I like the outcome but I am Aries, which means, I can’t bear things that don’t happen instantly, are out of my control and, more importantly, don’t do as they’re told. After all my hard work, emptying the grass cuttings out of the wheelbarrow, picking up the leaves and pruning the roses those pesky plants had the temerity to GROW BACK.
I now have a young man called Dominic, who was gifted to me by my beautician.
Dom is hard working, if a little green round the bulbs. But he keeps my borders trimmed and my weeds down.
As for self sufficiency, I want chickens, a cow, a goat, three sheep and a Llama.
Jim says ‘No problem love’.
But he’ says he’s booking himself on the next plane back to Leeds.
It’s now time for Saturday, if I don’t hurry up it’ll be Sunday and then where will I be.
So keep up your tales of mow ( ing )
and I’ll
cul8tr