The rain, it raineth on the just.
And also on the un-just fella.
But mostly on the just, because
the un-just stole the just's umbrella. Lord Bowen.
Frankly, I'm a bit fed-up. It seems to have been raining continuously all month, and the ground just hasn't had enough time between downpours to dry out. The weeds up at Haddock's have become depressingly all-invading. I've always tried to be philosophical about weeds, but this year they really mean business. I'm sure that I'll get on top of it in time, but this year especially I could have done without all this extra work.
Of course, being gardeners, we curse everything; it's always too wet, too dry, too hot, or too cold. Like farmers; gardeners are rarely happy.
On the brighter side, most of my courgette plants are now producing; I shall have some this evening. I like them sliced on an angle, and lightly sautéed in salted butter. We also have a good supply of perpetual spinach, artichokes, potatoes, and onions, so something must be doing OK.
It's just those wretched WEEDS.
p.s. I've just heard that yesterday we had 18 deaths as a direct result of all this rain in southern France, so maybe I should be thankful to be alive.