The Tiller
Right then, kettle on, feet up, and let me tell you about this week … the sort of week that starts with promise, throws in a frost for good measure, and then finishes by emptying the contents of the North Sea straight onto the allotment. What a week once more. We had the frosts , the kind that make everything look lovely at six in the morning and absolutely murderous by nine. The grass crunches underfoot, the soil looks innocent enough, and for a brief moment you think, “Ah yes, winter gardening, crisp and calm.” And then—because this is Britain—it rains. Not polite rain. Not a passing shower. Oh no. This was hours of downpour , the sort that soaks you through emotionally as well as physically. By the end of it the ground wasn’t soil anymore. It was glue. Sticky, claggy, boot-stealing glue. You take one step and the earth tries to claim your wellies as its own. Another step and it’s whispering, “Stay… forever.” There will be no gardening this weekend. And honestly? I’m not even...
