Sweet Ewan helps the Miller fill his flour-sack
Anyway, at the windmill, small tomato plants were on sale at 50p each, so my partner purchased two for our garden. Here I am with the fledgling re-potted plants on my estate:
Aren't they wee? Bless 'em. More of the tomato plants later...
I have just returned from a delightful walk in the woods, in the cool of the evening air. Alas, the occasion was a scene of distress for my luckless partner. Soon after entering the woods, she was caught short - as the best of us sometimes are - and had to pop behind a handy bush to download an urgent weemail.
Now, I concede that, when enveloped in the shady shelter of a coppiced beech in the early evening, the diminished light would make it difficult to distinguish between different types of plants and their leaves. However, I think that even my partner would agree that inadvertently grasping several stinging nettles (along with more harmless specimens) and wiping one's most intimate parts with them, post-wee, is a step best avoided in future.
I watched carefully as my partner's facial expressions on regaining the path progressed through "a slight tingling sensation", via "an increasing warmth", to "exceptional pain and swelling". At that point, I beat a hasty retreat, lest my convulsed guffaws be mistaken for - - - well, actually, no. They could not have been mistaken for anything other than helpless laughter. I felt guilty laughing, but still the tears of mirth ran down my cheeks. You will not be surprised to learn that we only took the short circuit of the woods this evening.
And now, as I type this entry, my partner is seeking relief in a hastily-improvised remedy. This involved a wet towel being placed into the freezer until thoroughly cooled. The chilled towel has now been placed 'twixt her rosy rear cheeks, with the added occasional and careful application of an ice-cube to the lips she doesn't kiss with.
I do not trust myself to watch without laughing, so I return to the subject of the tomatoes.
One of the plants is thriving and bodes well for a healthy crop of love-apples. The other (the one that my snout points towards in the picture above) has died completely. Upon examination, my partner expressed her suspicions as to its killer.
"Someone," she said, glaring at me - most injudiciously, in my opinion - "has been regularly urinating into the plant pot. Do YOU have anything to say about this, Jasper?"
Well, of course I didn't. I had never seen my partner (or myself, for that matter) pee-ing into the pot - and I had OFTEN been standing right beside it, while lifting my leg and trying to aim my- oh. Suddenly, the full force of my partner's argument struck me and I developed an urgent need to be somewhere else. I slunk away, my partner's glare burning into my retreating back.
Hmmm.... well, at least I didn't use a stinging nettle to wipe all the way from my intimate Box of Delights to my Little Chocolate Starfish...