Friday, 1 February 2013
As good as it got this morning - sitting at the kitchen table in the semi-darkness, elevenses, lamps on, but looking across at a prize.
Just picked, rain drenched, the brightest thing on my plot except for optimistic weeds. I'd dripped and sloshed home with it, amazed that it was ready for picking, and with a huge bunch of rosemary sticking out of my rucksack so happily that it looked like it was ready to take root there. And I came home and spent the rest of the morning watching the rain, wondering how to get my writing back on track with another day indoors weighing heavy on me.
You know how it gets. Too much time indoors makes Annie Inkhaven a dull girl. All my creative work suffers and strains and I get cranky. Low on long walks and sky fresh and cobwebs combed away by the shushing of receding tides. I am missing it too much. Sick of seeing more wet shoes by the door. And of wearing the dependable raincoat yet again, it's not the same when you have to dress as if for an expedition.
But I take heart from seeing the purple broccoli that's pushed through snow and a big freeze and the water log afterwards, and I can't quite believe I just picked it.
And you know what? February is better than January already because I just ate home grown greens. And this is just the first of the crop!!