The emperor Octavian was, I suspect, not a gardener in the north of Scotland. If I were asked to name a month after myself, I would have chosen one signifying hope or even idleness rather one of expectations unfulfilled. I have shamefully to admit that things have rather got on top of me. Preoccupied with bathroom and staircase specifications, and with the plot an unappealing cold squelchy place for the first half of the month, I've rather let the place go to seed, at least metaphorically - except for the calabrese, which took it literally. An empire of weeds you could say. Unlike HF-S though, I have actually visited the vegetable garden but I am reduced to crisis weeding, the sort you do to find where you planted your courgettes. Occasionally, a surprise cucumber surfaces. But I actually find myself looking forward to winter when the battle with the weeds becomes an even contest once again. Next August, after the annual routine of removing the blighted foliage from my potatoes, will be a good time to go on holiday. On second thoughts, Rome wasnt built in a day, and all roads will lead back to the Romanesco broccoli.
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