🌾 Tuesday Ramblings from the Potting Shed 🌾

By Virgil Twobyfour
Master of the Meander, Defender of the Daffy

Well now, here I am, settled with a lukewarm mug of tea (two sugars, forgot the milk, too late now) and a biscuit that may or may not have seen action in the Crimean War. I found myself pondering all manner of things beyond my ken this morning — whoever Ken is. I can’t recall knowing any Ken, unless, of course, they mean Old Ken Twmble, who was the village postman in the ’70s and a dab hand at dominoes. A man of few words, most of them about stamps.

Anyway, beyond Ken, I found my thoughts wandering like a sheep that’s spotted a hole in the fence. For instance — where do all the teaspoons go? I’ve a drawer full of forks, a battalion of knives, but spoons? Evaporated, like fog in a breeze. And while we’re on the subject of disappearances, I’ve never trusted the way socks conspire to vanish mid-laundry. I suspect a plot, possibly hatched by the tumble dryer in cahoots with the ironing board, who has always seemed shifty to me.

I sat for a bit watching the clouds too — one looked exactly like Mrs Trubshaw’s Pekinese if you squint a little and tilt your head to the left. And it got me thinking — what do clouds think about, drifting up there, unbothered by council tax or slug pellets? Maybe they’re up there judging my lawn.

And why is it that if you plant three rows of carrots, you get two rows of weeds and one row of something the seed packet never mentioned? I once grew a courgette that had ambitions of becoming a marrow and kept trying to roll into the neighbour’s garden.

I do wonder why people say “it’s neither here nor there” — because surely it’s always somewhere, even if it’s not where you left it. And if something is beyond the pale, what colour is the pale? No one ever says.

By the time my tea had gone stone cold and the biscuit had crumbled itself into oblivion, I realised I’d come to no conclusions at all. But then, perhaps that’s the point of a good ponder — to take your mind for a stroll and let it sniff at the hedgerows before heading home for a nap.

Your devoted rambler in thought if not in distance,
Virgil 🌱