Sorry. Haven’t been here for a while. Ahem. Life got on top of me, rather. Too much to do, too little time. It happens.

New year’s resolution: Less waffling, less ranting, more gardening. Goddammit. And you can quote me on that when I next go off on one.

Today’s back-to-the-plot task was emptying the compost bin and spreading manure and compost on the plot. I love doing this. It’s hard work, but that earthy smell of shit and fresh compost (year-old vintage) is wildly stimulating. Makes me think of all the fantastic vegetables I’ll be growing later in the year.

It’s not far off now. The grim short days are lengthening, and soon I’ll be moaning about running out of time. Actually, who needs ‘soon’? I am running out of time. Curses.

Have been enjoying Guns, germs and steel, a book about the rise of civilisation. The stuff about early agriculture and human settlement is particularly fascinating. If you were ever under the impression that there is something innately ‘superior’ about Europeans, you badly need to read this book to understand that pretty much everything that’s happened in human affairs since about 9000BC has come about solely thanks to geophysical determinism.

And, er, that’s my contribution for today.

This is bad enough, but I’m living with a cat who takes news of bad weather even more badly than I do – and who blames me for it. When I let him out in the morning to test the temperature of the patio with his paws, he turns a look of such malevolent hatred on me that I fully expect to be turned to stone.

So it’s with special fervour that I’m praying for a bit of sunshine.

PLEASE.

Given good soil and good conditions, parsnips grow to monster sizes. Some folks say they get woody and unpleasant to eat when they’re huge, but to be honest I’ve never noticed. Provided you cut out the core before cooking them, they’re fine.

And actually, this year’s crop has been my best ever. I’ve had two 15ft rows of huge, straight, tapering roots. Delicious, too, because all these frosts have sweetened them marvellously. This is Tender and True, my favourite variety.

How were your parsnips this season?

Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. First, it’s not a shed – it’s a plastic dumpster (whose assembly you can watch in my foolish video). Second, it’s a bloody disgrace.

I don’t do tidy. Tidy’s for tedious tossers. Sorry, but there it is. Apologies to all the tedious tossers I count among my friends. I love you guys. I know it’s a sickness.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to be tidier. I would. It’s just that becoming so would require becoming a tedious tosser. And some prices are just too high to pay.

Message to God: END THIS BLOODY WINTER NOW BEFORE I GO MAD.

There was a bit of feeble, watery sunshine yesterday. Not warm, exactly, but a distinct improvement on conditions over the last two months.

Instead of cheering me up, it’s depressed me further; like Tantalus reaching for his grapes (is it just me, or does that phrase sound like it should be in the Viz Profanisaurus?), I thrilled to the prospect of Spring… then remembered it was still Feb 17.

Utterly gutted.

The good news about a wet summer is that you get monster celeriac. In SE Britain, it was horribly dry last year so I got rubbish. I don’t want a pissing summer, God knows, but there is an upside.

I’m not proud of myself. A compost heap should look a bit ragged around the edges… but this is beyond unhygienic. The bags are full of chicken shit from my mother’s farm, and the pong is really minging. Makes your eyes water.

The rest is… well, junk. Let’s call a spade a spade: I’m a filthy bugger, and I need a clean up.

Mental note: Tidy up plot soonest.

“Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty”

Call me a dreamer. Call me a sadster. Tell me I need to get out more.

But hey, really. Is there anything more gorgeous than a neatly trimmed, manured, freshly dug vegetable plot?

“Pray, why?” you may ask. “Is this some new eroto-luminance perversion popular with the allotmenteering classes?”

Not exactly. It’s one of my personal winter foibles. You see, the day I can shower at 7am without artificial light is the day I know the sun is rising significantly earlier.

I’ve tried a few times over the last three weeks. Mostly with cartoon results – stubbed toes, histrionic slips with wild, flailing arms. I almost gave up last Tuesday when I spent 5 mins in pitch blackness trying to work up a lather with the soapdish.

But today, I managed it. Only shaving was a serious challenge: I look like Sweeney Todd’s practice dummy.

Still, the point is made: Spring’s bloody close.