|Benji and Boots|
Boots the English shepherd may be adorable, but he is eating us out of house and home.
It’s not the amount of food he eats, though that’s pretty impressive. Our two spaniels stare in admiration and jealousy as he chomps through shovelfuls of “large puppy” kibble. Large puppy? He’s nine months old, and the size of a pony.
Our problem is that Boots is rather partial to the kitchen itself.
So Oprah Winfrey was upset because a shop assistant refused to show her a handbag? She only wanted it to hold her lipstick at Tina Turner’s wedding.
I guess the fact it cost £24,000, was made of dead crocodile, and was designed by Tom Ford for Jennifer Aniston (hence it’s name, The Jennifer), made it newsworthy. Oh, and the fact that the shop assistant thought she couldn’t afford it. Because she was black, Oprah claims. Now that’s a story.
We have a vegetable crisis.
In the garden I have 15 raised beds, all neatly organised and rotated. They are a thing of wonder.
Or so I thought.
I know, I’m a vegetable bore. I insist that unsuspecting dinner guests take a tour of my vegetable patch before they can enjoy our canapés.
But the other week, as soon as some friends arrived for supper, the husband asked to see my garden with just a little too much enthusiasm. This was suspicious.
“How’s it going?” he asked, as we passed the greenhouse, aubergines fighting cucumbers and peppers for space.
I sensed a dangerous smugness in his voice. I showed him my bulging peas and beans, calmly growing towards their moment of destiny.
He moved on, feigning as much interest as a member of the royal family. But I knew he wasn’t really looking. He was comparing.