Tuesday 8th June

Day 50

This afternoon my father tells me a phrase his mother used if you went overdrawn at the bank,

“You’ve overstepped the constable.”

I imagine a policeman in a helmet crouched in her account, shaking his truncheon at her in warning.

I’m not in the red but I’m playing the game of ‘let’s not go to the shops and buy food before we go on holiday.’ Driving home I remember the yawning cavern of our fridge and stop at the allotment. The rain holds off as I cut handfuls of Neroli cabbage - dark silvery green, long crinkly leaves, springing from a stiff central stem. Rain drops like round glass domes leap from leaf to leaf as I shake them, keeping their perfect bead shapes - little water worlds intact.

I pull two lettuces, soft frilly edged, their roots crumbly with black earth. And some spinach leaves floppy as rabbit’s ears. I feel a surge of sadness looking up at the elder tree, its branches stooped with masses of creamy white flower heads. I long to pick them to make buckets of lemon scented cordial. But I’ve run out of time now and they will have turned dry and brown when we get back.

At least we’ll have some greens for supper. And I’m sure there are prawns in the freezer and certainly some rice in the cupboard.