Sunday August 8th
Day 109
This evening it’s my head not my toes which ache.
The garden is still, breathless, under a parachute of grey silk clouds.
My sweet sister and niece, who brought the gifts of old memories and new stories of their journey to Zambia into my weekend, have gone home.
My husband is at the allotment, mourning blight on his tomatoes.
I rummage through plastic bags in the fridge and find fat pea pods, wilted Swiss chard leaves, purple basil, small stripey courgettes and carrots sprouting root fingers. Supper takes shape in my mind, dissolving Sunday night blues. But not and the prospect of mountains of green tomatoes which my husband will bring through the door any minute now - a chutney challenge on my hands.
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