Green and pleasant land
The sunny Spring and wet Summer may have played merry hell with the cricket schedule (although given the years of training that the ‘Test Match Special’ team have had in talking about just about anything other than cricket, they were perfectly placed to bring the same world-class professionalism to bear on the ground staff rushing on and off with the covers that they do with the batting and bowling and to make it just, if not more, exciting), but it’s turned the garden into a den of plump lusciousness. My lawn has never looked so lush, nor the plants so…much like an out-of-control hedgerow.
While Jeremy, my vine, is looking promising, the tomato plants (grown from grafts, which is the plant equivalent of adopting a child once they are old enough top drive and buy you a pint, so getting around all that tedious business of raising them) are positively blooming. They are now taller than me, leading to my erecting a Heath Robinsonesque framework of bamboo and garden twine, anchoring the plants and keeping them upright. This is tricky, as they are loaded with plump tomatoes.
I put the growth down to their being grafts, regular watering, regular feeding and the blood of the odd stray cat.
I have a variety of plants, one grows traditional plump red toms, the other cherry tomatoes and yet another yellow tomatoes – and just out of interest how the hell know when they are ripe?
Ripening visibly are the grapes on Jeremy. They are turning from green to black and this year there’s a better than even chance that I will actually be able to harvest them. Previously, they have ripened and provided a feast for the local squirrels (or, as the Daily Mail would describe them, immigrants) but this year the cat population appears to have reached the tipping point where they have kept the grape guzzling critters at bay.
So this could be the year for wine. At last. This could be the year where the romance of wine making – throwing a load of fruit and chemicals into a plastic bucket, keeping it warm and hoping to Christ that it doesn’t explode or rot or result in the neighbours dobbing you in as brewing up a chemical attack – could result in something drinkable or at least the sort of thing that will remove stubborn stains.
What’s required, of course, is a decent name. Vin something and, in expectation of the taste, the front runner is Vin Diesel. I rather like Vin Shed also, or is that Vin Petit Chatau, or plain old Vin Shitoh! That said, why bother with any poncy French merde at all – I rather like ‘shedwine’, it hints of the exotic, a taste of porn and creosote.
While Jeremy, my vine, is looking promising, the tomato plants (grown from grafts, which is the plant equivalent of adopting a child once they are old enough top drive and buy you a pint, so getting around all that tedious business of raising them) are positively blooming. They are now taller than me, leading to my erecting a Heath Robinsonesque framework of bamboo and garden twine, anchoring the plants and keeping them upright. This is tricky, as they are loaded with plump tomatoes.
I put the growth down to their being grafts, regular watering, regular feeding and the blood of the odd stray cat.
I have a variety of plants, one grows traditional plump red toms, the other cherry tomatoes and yet another yellow tomatoes – and just out of interest how the hell know when they are ripe?
Ripening visibly are the grapes on Jeremy. They are turning from green to black and this year there’s a better than even chance that I will actually be able to harvest them. Previously, they have ripened and provided a feast for the local squirrels (or, as the Daily Mail would describe them, immigrants) but this year the cat population appears to have reached the tipping point where they have kept the grape guzzling critters at bay.
So this could be the year for wine. At last. This could be the year where the romance of wine making – throwing a load of fruit and chemicals into a plastic bucket, keeping it warm and hoping to Christ that it doesn’t explode or rot or result in the neighbours dobbing you in as brewing up a chemical attack – could result in something drinkable or at least the sort of thing that will remove stubborn stains.
What’s required, of course, is a decent name. Vin something and, in expectation of the taste, the front runner is Vin Diesel. I rather like Vin Shed also, or is that Vin Petit Chatau, or plain old Vin Shitoh! That said, why bother with any poncy French merde at all – I rather like ‘shedwine’, it hints of the exotic, a taste of porn and creosote.
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