I spent quite some time this afternoon moving plants around. Mostly, tomato plants from one greenhouse to the other. As a result, I can report that I have grown 39 Maskotka, 55 Red Cherry, 34 Black Russian, 22 Green Zebra, 40 Cuor di Bue, 37 Principe Borghese, 27 Gardeners Delight, 38 San Marzano and 42 Tigerella and an unidentified tomato without a label that became separated from its colleagues.
I thought I’d got over my habit of counting everything, but it seems that it’s still lurking somewhere in the warm dark recesses of my comfort zone.
Funny, isn’t it, the things you do as a child as a more-or-less compulsive habit? Like stepping on the lines in the pavement, or not, depending. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to share, actually. It’s not that I did anything particularly weird, but I don’t know if they were the sort of thing that anyone might have done or if they were peculiar to me. And I’d not care for you to think I’m odd.
The sight of Gordon Brown busy pressing the flesh while being serenaded by an Elvis must be one of the more bemusing events of this election campaign. I went out for dinner with some elderly friends two days into the campaign and we all gloomily agreed that we were already sick of it. It’s not the election or even the politicians – repellent though so many of them are, at least their jobs are on the line. It’s the ghastly journalists, who yabber on endlessly, speculating and hypothesising.