I am bad at keeping a veggie garden. Bad. One year in Joburg I had a pretty good haul but that seemed to have been a fluke. It was also a fluke for which I was extremely grateful as it was the year where we often only had food if it came from the garden.
Still, there’s nothing quite like being a writer to make you shrug off failure and keep going in the face of insurmountable odds and the pitying stares of your relatives and acquaintances. So, apply writer-logic to gardening and carry on regardless.
(Oh dear, now The Beautiful South’s Good as Gold (Stupid as Mud) is stuck in my head)
Anyway, on to my exciting garden adventures! It seems that when I try to grow actual things they do not like to live. It’s like they die on purpose because they hate me or something.
Like these pissed-off lettuces. I think the cat shat on them actually. *sadface*
Contrast this with the tangle of giant things I never planted, never look at, and occasionally mow over in a fit of spite. It is mid-winter in the cape, drizzly and fairly nippy (by my standards, so shut up, Canada), and we have the first bananas appearing. Bananas, I ask you.
If I apply garden logic to writing, I think I’m meant to be writing bananas instead of lettuce. There’s a message in there somewhere.