Lady Chatterly had it all. She had a gardener. This was the most important thing. It doesn't matter about the rest, but she had a good gardener. In fact I'm not sure if her gardener was any good (in the garden that is) as everyone was focusing on what happened in the potting shed, but I wonder if she was seducing him so he would be the one to sort out her brambles and cut down her trees. And I'm not talking metaphorically although not sure what the metaphor would relate to. The garden is taking shape, the sun is shining, moles are being blown up, slugs are being sliced and I'm eating my way through a crop of blackberries and apples. There will be a huge bonfire and my guests are leaving and I don't want them to. I love them. They are lovely. They are normal. I don't want them to go. I am off to the market this morning. The one in Villefranche which sells everything and anything. I will eat warm fresh figs and buy honey. I wonder if it sells gardeners and really nice guests. I need three of them, for a week, probably two. The rest I can do myself.
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