megustaleer

My tomato plants have been growing almost visibly since the weather warmed up, but only started setting in the last week or so, due to the late cold spell that meant I didn't plant them out until the last w/e of May. Even then they were much less developed than they had been when planted out, two or three weeks earlier, in years 2020 & 19. Just hoping for an extended summer (but a few degrees cooler than this) to keep them fruiting. I would ask for a bit of rain to swell the fruit and save me carting a watering can about, but I have a feeling that we might get a bit more wet than I require over this coming weekend.

Obviously it depends on personal taste, but I don't think you could do better than The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim.

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The book "Up The Junction", by Nell Dunn, referred to the area around Clapham Junction, not to a public house. There may be, or may have been at some time, a pub of that name in the area, or there may not. No doubt there have been plenty of pubs called "The Junction" in the vicinity of many other railway junctions, it is not uncommon, but not necessarily with any literary connection.

HER PEDIGREE. I. To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: Through antediluvian mists as thick As London fog such a line to pick Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick, Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas. II. It wouldn't require much verbal strain To trace the Kill-man, perchance, to Cain; But, waiving all such digressions, Suffice it, according to family lore, A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore, Who was famed for his great possessions. III. Tradition said he feather'd his nest Through an Agricultural Interest In the Golden Age of Farming; When golden eggs were laid by the geese, And Colehian sheep wore a golden fleece, And golden pippins - the sterling kind Of Hesperus - now so hard to find - Made Horticulture quite charming! Opening stanzas of Miss Killmansegg and Her Precious Leg - Thomas Hood

When butter goes rancid these days.... Beneath hot beams of summer sun rays The puddles of oil

There once was a man called Ben Siller Whose movie career was a thriller When he walked through the Bronx... Amid hooting and honks

My mother groand! my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt: Helpless, naked, piping loud; Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my fathers hands: Striving against my swaddling bands: Bound and weary I thought best To sulk upon my mothers breast. Infant Sorrow - William Blake

Steady rain here for the past 4 hours, gradually getting heavier. From the noise it is making I think it has now moved into the torrential category. The perennial flower border I planted in the spring is just about to burst into flower - or was. I hope it is not all flattened by the morning.

76 next month

Young Myrtle had a pet ferret Who won every prize going, on merit... A polecat once said The ferret was bred With few polecat traits to inherit >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Young Bert took a dip in the river

Young Myrtle had a pet ferret Who won every prize going, on merit... A polecat once said

A man called Clamden from Camden.... Rode a horse called Ramsden During his first race.... He fell on his face

I am enjoying watching TGBSB. I think I have watched every series. Apart from the competition element of it, and the garments they produce each week, I am amazed at the way dressmaking has changed since I bought my first sewing machine with money I saved from my Saturday job in C&A. My current machine is nearly 50 years old, and is not capable (or maybe I'm not) of handling many of the modern materials, and the idea of cutting out using weights not pins to hold the fabric seems quite foolhardy to me. There is some very skilful work being done at this stage in the competition.

The Bob Ross programmes were watched regularly by Mr meg last year, but I quickly became bored by them. As you say, it's not the same thing at all as the "Artist of the Year" programmes. I did find his biography, shown some time last year, very interesting, but watching him produce what I find rather formulaic pictures, evening after evening, has lost its fascination for me. Even Mr meg only watches occasionally nowadays.