artichoke, weather, counting

 At the Farmers' Market, the Belgian who grows and sells vegetable and herb plants and some produce, tells me about the cavolo nero, kale which I am buying from him, the purslane,  and the sprouts and black cherry tomatoes from his nursery  which I have already bought and planted, and in reward for my interest, throws in this artichoke, as a present.

The local weather forecast on the BBC website (Tunbridge Wells, it  says) promises sunny intervals. The picture  is white cloud half covering the sun. Outside the sky clouds over, a blanket of grey. Small rain drops fall like cold needles on my bare arms.

Every day I find myself counting. I count the amount  of time I hold the hose of  over  a row of plants. I count the number of turns that I give when, on Sundays, I wind the two bracket clocks in the house. I count the slices of peach which I arrange on  plates for breakfast. I count spoonfuls of sugar, spoonfuls of flour, spoonfuls of water in recipes. And this morning I count the morning glory flowers in bloom on the fuchsia: this morning there are nine.