It has rained. Hallelujah! The lawn is blushing green. Just a blush, mind. Not about to incriminate itself yet as wholly-happily irrigated.
Husband is possessed of post-storm fervour and marches around our tiny veg patch shaking packets of seeds in my direction. He is going away this week. Because he is busy and import and employed. I, because I am not (busy, important, employed) am staying put. And as such am In Charge of the veg patch for the next six days. Which means I must Pay Attention to what he is telling me about where to plant maize and carrots and must try not to kill the coriander like I did the beans when I drenched them with some toxin to evict spider mite population.
‘You said 15 mls of insecticide to 25 litres of water’, I mumble in feeble protest as we stand observing dying, gasping, jaundiced crop.
‘I didn’t mean you to pour the whole effing 25 litres on 12 plants. Fercrissakes, that was enough for the whole garden!’. (which, for the record, is nearly 2 acres).
‘At least I got rid of the spider mites’, I point out uselessly.
I did. They donned mite-sized gas masks, packed their bags and moved hastily off to the lovely healthy coriander plants to the left.
Still. At least the Flamboyant looks lovely. I don’t have to do anything with that.
Which is probably just as well?