Into the valley of the shadow of death

29May14

This morning, before work, I delivered two more courgette seedlings to my garden partner’s doorstep, ready for this evening and my return, when I shall plant them out in the big wide world. As I walked up the street with them, their long, hothouse-attenuated arms and lily-pad hands waving zanily with each of my strides, I noticed I was scowling. Why?

It’s surely impossible to walk down a London street past commuters, bearing comedy-looking plants without looking cheery, and yet I caught my expression in a shop window and it was thunderous. The plants themselves seemed so excited about their new home but I realised that my face was shaped by my heart, and it was heavy with guilt. Without slug pellets, I’m surely taking them to their death. These lovely, lovely plants I’ve raised from seed. Oh, God, the rage. The rage and the sorrow.

But soft! Who goes there? Call me Lucrezia Borgia, but there’s a small twist of slug pellets secreted deep in a pocket of my rucksack. Look to your households and bar your doors, there may be foul murder this night…

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