Tragic, isn't it? I planted four or five big spuds a few months ago excited by the promise of 'potatoes for Christmas dinner'. And this is the return. Rubbish. How do you even peel a potato that's the size of your thumbnail?
I was so happy to move into a lovely garden flat, full of hopes of reactivating my green fingers. I remembered how much I used to love pottering in my little garden, growing, with some success, herbs, strawberries, tomatoes and more.
Since then I've lived with an ocean-side balcony and a janitor-managed rooftop deck (I know, poor me). I think it's ruined me forever. I can barely even keep a sturdy rosemary bush alive. Our lawn is sodden and patchy, the herbs were never any better than pale and mean, my geraniums got all leggy and straggly and fell over, and the peas and beans just disappeared in an overnight slug attack. Disappointing doesn't even cover it.
So while other gardeners are clearing, digging over, and getting excited for Spring, I'm just pleased we'll be leaving this garden behind by the time the weather warms up. Hopefully we'll trade it in for a small patio with just enough room for a table and chairs and that pot with the wilting rosemary bush in it. I think that's about all I can handle these days.