Chants Cottage: Leggy Lovelies and a Brazen Hussy
Sorry to disappoint those who might be disappointed (Rod Stewart, other blokey blokes except blokes who like blokes, ladies who like ladies, ‘impresarios’ and such) but these leggy lovelies are not in fact the sort of leggy lovelies who might populate belipglossed polyester clad dance troupes assembled to frug along to ‘S-S-S-Single Bed’ on Top of the Pops circa 1976. (If I had anything to do with a dance troupe they would inevitably have to be called Cold Porridge and wear woollen bodystockings and hairnets and welly shoes.) Ho no, my leggy lovelies look like this…
|V-V-V-Veggie bed…. Phwoarrrrrrr!!|
I’ve written leggy lovelies too many times now. (I did that the other day with the new fangled word facepalm. Facepalm. Facepalm. Facepalm. See?). Yes, they are my tomato plants, currently residing on the sitting room window sill. For some reason if you grow things on a windowsill as opposed to in a greenhouse they grow leggy ie all long and spindly like Elle McPherson / Olive Oyl. I suppose cos they are striving to get into the light, the pampered ingrates. Give ‘em all the constant heat and water they could ever desire (except when you leave the door open and forget to water them) and all they do is try their damnedest to break through the nearest window and in the process stretch themselves like so much silly putty. So I have had enough and I am evicting them. Yesterday I went to Tuckers and bought some grow bags to put in the vast crystal palace that is the two for the price of two greenhouse, as yet full of nought but draughts and spiders. Whilst there I was lured in to join the world’s most pathetic loyalty scheme. For every £50 you spend you get… wait for it…. a ONE POUND VOUCHER! I’ve got my eye on a cider press… I earned two pounds towards it yesterday. I calculate it will only take me another 260 years to accrue the required amount in vouchers. I bought a lot of growbags and other stuff too, including one of those dog ball chucker things. I tested it on Dudley (I thought the ducks might have ball / bill issues. Not to mention the being in the same field as me issues. And being ducks in general issues). The ball soared into the air and disappeared from view, possibly having joined a few of the nearer satellites in orbitting the Earth. He gave me a look through his furbrows. The look said “Have you seen the length of my legs recently?” and rolled in some fox poo, evidently regarding this as a much better use of his precious time than traversing the Earths curvature in pursuit of a cheap orange tennis ball. Another pampered ingrate. That dog ball chucker cost me one pound and fifty pence. That’s 75 quids worth of vouchers. Anyway I am now the proud owner of eleven* growbags (I only paid for ten so either the bloke who loaded them into the pick up liked the cut of my jib or can’t count. I’m going with the second of these options. Not sure he would have known a jib if it whacked him in the face, appearing as he did due his total lack of response to anything I said to be a moustachioed Devonian forklift truck robot. Either way, it was a freebie I didn’t have to spend £150 acquiring. Thus concludes my withering scathe upon the Tuckers loyalty scheme. I thank you.)
|My entry. Chelsea flower show. It’s conceptual, okay?|
Wazzing the bags two at a time in a broken comedy wheelbarrow intent upon divesting its contents anywhere but where I wanted them, from the yard around the lean-to, through the small field and veg garden to the greenhouse which is right against the boundary was a bit like taking part in It’s A Knockout without the idiotic guffawing and foam penguin costume and with more swearing. Anyway, I won at least. So this afternoon’s task is to get the teeny little plants into the bags, or some of them at least. I have about 900 tomato plants and space for thirty three according to the convention of three plants per growbag. Not to mention the chilli, aubergine and pepper plants. And the tomato plants in the greenhouse. So if anyone wants a leggy tomato plant or six please feel free to come and help yourself. And have some fecking eggs while you’re at it.
|Spot the hen cack.|
Some neighbours came round the other day, and very nice they were too, but they brought with them a gift of six enormous white duck eggs. Talk about, er, eggs to here. Any egg usage ideas gratefully accepted. I’ll swap one for a tomato plant, if you want. Or an egg. Or six eggs. I’ll even scrape the poo off them first, if you insist. I resorted to making a souffle last night. It was quite nice but a right faff. Will stick to Fluffy Omelette in future (recipe in this post). Less faff, almost the same. Anyway, to the Chants Cottage hussy. Our small cat is pregnant. This is she:
Butter would not melt, would it? It’s always the quiet ones. And the ones you haven’t quite got round to speying yet. This is her paramour:
|Help yourself, why don’t you? Oh, you have.|
Or thereabouts. He is quite frankly the most enormous cat I’ve ever seen. He is very pleased with himself too, as you might expect. The other night, Dudley as the man animal of the house caught up with him and gave him a good talking to, setting him right on one or two points.
Well that’s told HIM.
* ERRATUM (old foreign for ‘I’m a durbrain’): Upon shifting said bags into greenhouse I find that it is in fact me who cannot count. There are only ten. Dur.