nibbling, bags, progressive

Today's squirrel in The Grove.

Apart from the bed in the vegetable garden, formerly devoted to a bonfire site, now given over almost entirely to potatoes, I have by way of experiment, planted potatoes in bags. You place some compost in the bottom of a bag, put four or five seed potatoes on the compost and, as the potatoes begin to sprout, add more compost, and then more again, as the shoots appear. The first of the four bags planted in this way is now full of compost and, I hope, of embryo potatoes. For the time being, I must content myself with the burst of green potato leaves, which emerges from the top of the bag like a shock of wild locks.

In the High Street, I meet Derek an elderly man whom I used to see regularly walking in The Grove and in Hall's bookshop. I have not seen him for some time, and, as one does, with people of our age, fall to speculating about his health. So we greet each other warmly. He is on the arm of his tall and cheerful wife, and wears as ever, a deerstalker. In reply to my "How are you? he says with a smile: "Well I'm here", and adds: "Unfortunately, getting old is progressive".