After epic voyages into the seed catalogue and salivation on passing the packets, it now looks likely that my poor scrap of a garden will be beset with only tomatoes, zuccinni, parsely, cilantro and potatoes because there simply won’t be the time to be out there talking and tending to the babies.

So much for the greenhouse woman! Not a pot filled and it nearly April. For shame, for shame, a disgrace.

This would be my fourth or is it fifth year — here I was hoping for great strides. Still I am looking forward to the flowerman’s garden. I often see him on the road and call out to him. And there’s the other gardens around mine, especially Marie. And the chef and Philip who gave me arugula, not to mention Doris and the sunken terracotta wine coolers.