10,000 steps? That’s here to Walthamstow, or something.

This pedometer is an accursed thing. Really. Who walks 10,000 steps a day with legs this long? I find solace in Pringles and cooked breakfasts, which only deepens the contradiction further. Tis a curse, a truly Sysepheian task which surely nobody manages.

On the other hand, I’ve been out in the sun weeding the garden; there are many surprises, the biggest being possibly the sheer volume of melted snails that have appeared since the slug pellets went down. In the stretch between the parsnips and the compost bin, the bluebottles are massing, Hitchcok style. There’s a plethora of decaying cephalopods there to stretch your capacity of belief, and they’ve clearly been at my rhubarb, which is pretty much unforgivable.

It’s made up for by the healthy looking ‘snips which have surprised me somewhat given the weed situation. I don’t hold so much hope out for the flowers from seed.

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