shoot the dog

I'd decided that I would concentrate on landscaping the garden behind the house this summer and do less in the vegetable garden because it demands so much time but this morning I woke up feeling guilty and decided to make a trip to the garden centre.

On the way into town I got stuck behind a foreigner (a Parisian with a 75 plate*) who was having difficulty negotiating his Range Rover along the narrow winding road but I didn't mind because there was a pleasant smell of wild garlic wafting in through the window.

When I got to the garden centre I went a bit mad (too much garlic) so now I have not only enough potatoes to feed Ireland circa 1845 but also aubergines, peppers, chillies, courgettes, red onions, peas, beans, celeriac, tomatoes, carrots and beetroot for the donkeys - plus a dozen aromatiques for the herb garden. I've ended up with more than last year.

I've taken to listening to my iPod up at the potager and yesterday as I was hoeing and unconsciously swaying away to George Michael ("shoot the dog"), M. Le Juge (host of the dinner party from hell) suddenly appeared at my shoulder and gave me the fright of my life. As I removed my iPod from my back pocket to adjust the volume he said: "Oh. You are listening to music. I thought you were having an epileptic fit."!!

* The last two digits of a French number plate denote the département in which the car is registered, i.e. where the owner lives. From 2009 there will no longer be a local département code, only a sequential number, so you won't be able to tell where drivers are from. Shame.