Soilman

I’m stuck indoors. Trying to decide how to write this post.

You see, I was going to admit to being too wet and wussy to freeze my arse off at the allotment. Then I realised that, to about half of you, this is gibberish. Translation: “I’m insufficiently masculine to freeze my ass off at the community garden.”

This is the trouble with an international web audience. If I mention my garden (Trans: back yard), some of you assume I’m the head groundsman at Kew.

Ditto aubergine (Trans: egg plant) and courgette (Trans: zucchini). If I publish a recipe involving either, one of you will phone me a doctor.

So I’m giving up. I’ll just flob out on the sofa (crash on the couch), crack a tinny (open a beer), let one rip (give vent to a flatulent impulse) and bash out another shed-load of bollocks (write a considerable quantity of, er, testicles).

You can work (figure) it out.