All that’s lacking in my life is 50 cubic feet of steaming fresh horse droppings.

Some of the aubergine seedlings have left the cosiness of a shared pot in the propagator and ventured into the luxury of their own accomodation in the polytunnel.

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They are not amused:

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A bit like taking a gamble on a cheap package holiday, they have arrived to find their quarters only half finished:

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This should be a radiating hotbed but so far all efforts to get hold of the fresh horse manure required to fill it have been in vain.  The surroundings do appear to be dotted with horses but when the owners are tracked down it never seems quite possible to make an arrangement.  I am referred on – and directions round here seem to be a bit vague and ambiguous – and I crisscross the landscape seeking the vital ingredient. The net throws up a postcode for a pony trekking centre and half an hour later down winding lanes… their is no sign of it.  On enquiring in a farm yard the reason for its non-existence seem a bit vague but I am enthusiastically referred on to a mate down the road.  I arrive at an immaculate stables with huge steaming pile – but no sign of a human being.  I leave a note through the door – maybe a call will come tomorrow.

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