Blighted by my tomatoes

I’m in mourning for my tomatoes. They have blight. Goodbye tomato chutney, farewell tomato soup, hasta la vista gazpacho. On a plus note, my butternut squashes are swelling nicely and my courgettes are the size of sex toys although I am having to keep this from Len, the sex tourist allotmenteer down the way, as I fear he may use the size of my gourds as an excuse to start a conversation about how his Philippino internet bride refuses to ‘eat’ his ‘vegetables’. Talking about being in mourning, on another note, I went to a funeral yesterday (for a person, not a vegetable). It was a long drive so naturally, on arrival, I urgently needed the lav. However, this being a small village, there were no public toilets, both pubs were closed and the man in the petrol station, (a swarthy type who gobbled his words so badly I had to ask him to repeat himself five times), told me their loo had a blockage. Luckily, I am a black belt at al fresco weeing so I hopped over a hedge (not easy in kitten heels and a pencil skirt) and did my business in a field. However, unlike the time I relieved myself on the hard shoulder of the M40, I had no audience. Never mind.