THURSDAY
Following my WhatsApp plea for vegetable seeds, five little tomato plants have appeared on the doorstep. They look so helpless and in need of proper nurturing. Not sure they’ve come to the right house.
As I bring them inside, I announce that these plants absolutely must not die. This would do nothing for neighbour relations. The eight-year-old peers at them suspiciously, then informs me that tomatoes are in fact fruits - not vegetables.
Aha, so this means he’ll be happy to eat them, then? Apparently not. He only eats tomatoes that come with pasta; we still call this ‘red sauce’, just in case he starts refusing it on the grounds of its association with the evil tomato.
Some arguments just aren’t worth the oxygen.
Unfortunately, my track record with keeping house plants alive isn’t good. When the husband goes away for work, he leaves the 12-year-old in charge of watering. Mouldy the goldfish is left in the capable hands of the eight-year-old.
The husband has been avoiding me. I think he’s worried I might have ideas about what his personal lockdown goal might be.
This evening, he rifles through the kitchen drawer and brings out a tape measure. He heads outside, muttering something about finally knocking down that goddamn wall that we’ve been debating since we moved here five years ago.
Now, this is unlikely to happen for a number of reasons, not least because he knows I have an aversion to DIY projects involving brick dust. Smart move.
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