When in may I posted jauntily about how O and I had gone feverishly about trying to recreate The Good Life canalside I was hoping for a bigger crop.

Months of picking herbs, tomatoes, onions, courgettes, wild garlic and marrows in my twee basket was, fun. But my 3m sq plot of butternut squash resulted in a crop of one and the aubergine never surfaced. As for the leeks, they’re still flouncing their chive like trunks in the wind.

The french beans flourished but my red wellies fell in the canal…the rotting wooden handle fell off the large spade and the fox took to kipping in the marjoram. We knew it was never going to be a bed of roses but it wasn’t supposed to turn out quite so unfruitful.

After much discussion over a family lunch, (japanese onions, O’s desire for a dog and said squash were mentioned) my father in law elect went potato pink and spluttered theatrically “What’s happened to you all – Why are my children talking about gardening?” I have to admit he had a point.

Shamed by a sixty something who still sails the seas, talks at the Tate and likes to tread the boards in a cumabund or two. Self sufficiency suddenly feels blushingly uncool.

And my dancing shoes look rather dusty.

xxx

It takes a lot to get me off the boat but this just may do it. Our den is full of Warhol cats and with cripper creeping up – pop art whisker action is high on the list for godchildren. Can I go one step further and start the museum march?

Not sure how much illustration there’ll be, but sunday strollworthy.

Let’s agree to the option. x

After a bonfire night full of fab friends, hog roasts, howling hounds and warm red wine it’s a weekend of namings, boat plans, foraging for fine oil paintings, flim flam and takatooka for Gypsy Rose and listening up to a bit of good music.

Have a lovely one.

xxx

The music lesson when I was small was pretty much on a par with the winter run to the flower market. It filled me with dread. But as I get older I really regret not being able to get down Du Pre style and rock out with my cello…why didn’t I listen to my music teacher and his wagging drumstick of a finger?

We’re a pretty musical house, well when O’s on the decks or downloading some obscure jazz singer or I’m sqwarking over washing up, heck, I like to think that we are musical enough to compete with the cats meows…

So here’s the thing. This florist is looking for an instrument to learn, that won’t shred my hands like roses, soothes my foliage bashing fingers and fills all the gaps between grade 4 jallopy playing and an aspiring musician.

Answers on a plectrum xxx

Spread my wings…

Not a huge amount of blogging of late as I’ve been hunter gathering for our december project. Cue dusting down petticoats, tightening up the laces on hobnail boots and drowning in grosgrain ribbons and music papers.

All a bit Eliza but a lot of fun. more soon. xxx