Today I intended to climb mountains.  I did not.  The students had other plans and some were off skiing instead.  So then I planned to wander solo through the hills but then I changed my mind.  Instead I pottered.  It is necessary to potter occasionally.  To catch yourself with hands covered in soil and planting seeds to the sound of radio 4.  To laugh inwardly, nearly cry, and think, “OMG, how old am I?”

It is only three days until equinox. It is a fitting time to plant the tomatoes and peas and such things.  I would love to admit to knowing when to plant different things, to feel the pulse of the moon and stars and be able to know when to sow.  In reality, this is not my pulse.  My planting is done in hiatus of work.  My pulse is the gaps in traffic and the regularity of bells. I do not plant crops out of necessity, our crops are a luxury.  They are the random nibbling of peas, the tomato salads al fresco with rosé wine and the experimental peppers tasted and binned after copious glasses of cold milk.  A biology teacher colleague asked me how long our salad seeds take to germinate.  He was contemplating a new experiment and its feasibility.  I gave him a reply of maybe a week or two.  This was suitably vague and hopefully he read between the lines that my true answer was that they germinate when they germinate and they seem happy with that.

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