I’ve just been out in the garden speaking to Myleene and Olaf who are here on holiday from Denmark. We got talking about what we grow in our respective garden and allotments.
I have to confess that the variety of edibles they grow puts my allotment to shame. I stick to the predictable but reliable basics such as runner beans, rhubarb, beetroot, tomatoes, courgettes, parsnips, peas, soft fruit and strawberries etc.. Myleen and Olaf are passionate about growing a much wider variety of produce. They’re also commendably committed to growing, and promoting awareness of, what we might call here ‘heritage varieties.’
We all agreed you can’t beat the taste of home-grown produce and I said I’d post a poem in celebration of anyone who enjoys growing fruit, vegetables or herbs at home; be it in a garden, in tubs on a patio, in a windowbox or in pots inside their house.
While I shell peas, slice onions,
a man in Armani sunglasses
shows you photographs
on his phone. He apologises
for the poor picture
quality, vouches for the guns.
Cheap, he says, less than a week
to deliver. He’s fat,
as he was at school, always teased,
chosen last, put in goal. You were there
the first time he pulled a knife, saw
your brother step back, shocked,