Weather; bootiful, better than yesterday.
Weight; a lot heavier than Lesley
Hours worked; no idea.

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a dear friend who died of a vicious cancer that had her number. She had diminished in size but (by God) not in spirit. I needed time today on my allotment – alone - to remember her. I planted my spuds. In the great scheme of things this is almost insignificant now, but they were my first planting on the allotment and I should have celebrated – another day perhaps.

The double-dug bed accepted a bag full of Duke of York (isn't he the healthy-looking fat one?) and when I had finished, I couldn't see any change whatever; so I sprinkled some old black compost over where they were situated to encourage the worms, and to tell everyone that 'Digger has planted something'. I worked on bed number two: if you remember bed no 1, this was a repeat performance, more stones, more weeds, more blisters. Just before I went home I checked to see if my spuds were showing; nothing yet, but that means that there is nothing to tempt Peter rabbit and all his friends and relations. Do rabbits eat potato shoots? We shall see.

Not in the mood today.