These are the sweet peas on Monday, just before cutting, which went to David (Ion Acoustics in the Wool Hall) for his wife Moira (Congratulations!) for their wedding anniversary and birthday. They had to compete with two shop-bought bouquets and a long hunt for a vase, we hope they didn't get bullied at night and that they hold their own this week. He probably looked a great sight, cycling through Bristol with them under his arm, like an extra from a Hugh Grant movie?! They've only been in the ground for 3 weeks (the sweet peas, not David and Moira, what they get up to in the the solitude of their own house is no business of ours) and Jo has to stand on a stool to pinch out some of them; there's fear in her eyes in the evenings these last few days. The sunshine has catapulted the plants into a higher state of growiness, potting on and planting out has jumped to the top of the list, in fact it's not a list any more, but a very long stream-of-consciousness sentence, with no punctuation. She's already sun-burned like a cowgirl with fingers twitchy for her mother-of-pearl-inlaid Trowel. It's not the Railroad that's coming, but the Rotavator, one cylinder, 4-strokes and spiked wheels of destruction . . . .The Tilth and and the Fury.
