It is the 31st of March and the seeds have arrived from the mail order company – JR Brown and Co. I ought to shop locally but with Covid and an inability through habit of not going out, I prefer to browse their brochure away from general noise in a shop and people reaching across you, and a lack of concentration, one can achieve a plan without too much difficulty. Things like maturity dates, spacing, and ground available are all important in getting it right.

I notice from my phone app; Growing, that for the last three years I have sown the seeds on this auspicious date, so to avoid any superstitious nonsense I had better do it today, which I did.

So the two staples of Brussells Sprouts and Leeks are promptly dealt with, as are seeds from last year, Courgettes and Cucumber. It was whilst writing the labels that my mind wandered. Every time (not an exageration) I write a label I think of my Father, doing exactly the same thing.

As a child my writing was an embarrassment, and still is. I was aware at even six or seven that it wasn’t a signature style, something that said said something about me. My father commented on it and came to the same conclusion so apart from evening tuition on Maths (tears), he made me write in his long hand script as he had been taught at school. A sloping to the right script very similar to the American style taught to several generations. Unforgunately, my mind races ahead and I suppose I didn’t have the patience or skill to really carry it on; and in my defence when ate school one has to make notes very quickly and pretence at style goes out the window to the much more appealing playing fields.

And there you have it. My Father’s writing. When it happens I am him, in the greenhouse he would have died for – well he did die, but no greenhouse ensued.