I was glad for the humour of vegetables the other day: a tomato with scarring and a bulbous nose; an aubergine that also had a nose, or something else; courgettes the size of mini sausages next to courgettes the size of drummers’ forearms, which I suppose makes them marrows.
As I bent down and used a small serrated knife to cut the courgettes from the hairy stalks under their canopy of lush leaves, a mosquito walked up my leg, biting as she went. I was glad for that, too, because I know the friend whose garden it is would laugh and laugh at the wondrous collection of vegetables, and even more so at the bite on my bum. There were two of us sharing this precious bounty; I put my half in a hot plastic bag, put the bag in the car, then brought it home.
