Electric Green

This is a not-necessarily-linear tale of a road-trip in France; there is the odd toll gate on the way. Quite a lot of ‘80s music and fast cornering. Tomatoes. Wildlife. To be honest, it is fairly abstract. You can leave if you like.         The Beginning, Folkestone, later than anticipated, July “It’s not the Nürburgring* you know!”  the man said, sternly. Hurtled to a halt. Sheepish, muttered apologies....late...made check-in by clear 30 seconds....embarrassed cough...continued towards customs.   Disco Lightning – Paris and South, 2-5am, July Surprisingly, underneath the most romantic city in the world is a labyrinth of dark underpasses, packed with fast moving traffic. Diverted off the motorway, I stuck to the tail of the crazed lorry driver in front. Screeching round corners, heading south. My great uncle’s theory was that if you get lost driving in London you should follow a taxi. Same difference in Paris (more or less), except t...

Squashes ready for battle I am annoyed. Annoyed and frustrated. Annoyed frustrated and thoroughly vexed. “By what, Best Beloved?” I hear you ask, concern in your voice, your gentle brow lightly furrowed (and having evidently recently re-read the Just-So stories). I am sick and tired of the continual battle against couch grass on my veg plot. I pull it up. It comes back. I double dig. It comes back. I cover it up. The sheet blows away in the wind. Like I said. Vexing. So I have a plan. An ambitious plan. “And what is thy scheme of redoubtable cunning regarding the aforementioned productive location, Best Beloved?” I hear you ask (being possessed of ‘satiable curiosity and having spent a bit too long in the company of a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake with a scalesome, flailsome tail, I can only presume). Aha. It is this. For each squash or courgette I have dumped two thirds of a heaped wheelbarrow of well-rotted horse manure, unceremoniously on top of the offending weed. ...