A weekend in the garden. Now, some of my mates say the word ‘gardening’ in much the same tones as ‘prostate examination’ or ‘ballet concert’.
Actually a prostate exam is preferable to a ballet concert. Its over quicker and you don’t have to make polite conversation with plonkers in the interval.
Anyway, I like gardening. The kind where you grow stuff to eat, anyway. My grandfathter used to plant potatoes on the 1st of October, regardless of weather: they were for Christmas dinner. The climate up that way is a bit milder than Wellington, to put it mildly, so I’m planting some for the usual mid-January dinners.
They will NOT be used for Potato Salad. It is a dreadful thing to do to a decent spud.
Also planted rhubarb. This is a new development and may not work out, but we like the stuff and its bloody healthy.
The neighhours, meanwhile, are having a barbie.
Listening to things like Carole King and Janis Ian and other sensitive wee girlies. Played too damn loud for that sort of thing.
So its time for a beer, crank up the old FTN stereo, and stick on some good blokes…starting with Cold Chisel’s beaut paen to a cheap wine and a female goat…