Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb......

As I have reported previously on these pages, I am not a natural gardener. But having had a modicum of success with tomatoes and rocket and basil and coriander last year, I thought, hoped, that fruit and veg maybe where my green fingered talents lay. So, my gardening friend gave some plants to plant. The ruby chard started well and then sort of died. The brussel sprout has done anything but, the kale started well but has stopped and the cauliflower is all cauli and no flower. But the rhubarb has thrived. I was told the two types, the names of which I now forget, needed to winter before they could be picked and crumbled, roasted, fooled, whatever..... and low, through the dank soil they continue to poke and bloom.....

Grow my pretties......

Doctor, doctor I I've got rhubarb

Don't' worry you can get cream for that.....

Rain lashed London shone in the bright morning sunlight. Stick trees poked the high blue sky through thin chilled air. On the bus I saw a baby cocooned in his buggy, nothing but his round, hairless head poking out. He had the look of a man of 80 rather than his 18 months, I domed forehead, knowing blue-grey eyes, a down-turned mouth slow to smile a toothless grin. He peered about him with a world weary gaze. The bus stopped to let a funeral procession pass: 4 large long black cars following a hearse containing a giant, wicker eco-coffin, a coffin-shaped, man-sized, moses basket with a lid with toggles to keep it fastened....from the cradle to the grave......

Top tip: Go see The Artist........I'm not sure it's quite 'the greatest movie ever' but it's delightfully charming and very beautiful.....