One minute writer: Texture

Woollen weave in your jacket and your hat, always a hat. Comfort and warmth that protected me when I was young. Close my eyes and the touch of tweed can still conjure a smell of outdoors and green and freshly dug earth and dogs and oil paint and pipe tobacco and soft Yorkshire air.

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I still miss my dad. 
For One Minute Writer

I have morons at the bottom of my garden

I have morons at the bottom of my garden.
There used to be a tree, but the idiots who live there have cut it down, you see. It was getting rather lanky and its branches were quite long but there wasn't any need to chop, they've really got it wrong.
The outer bits were pushing past the shed roof quite a lot so we said to them that they should trim it up and take a shot at making it more tidy; just a bit off at the back. But they hacked off all its branches just like that: hack hack hack hack!
The jackdaw was complaining cos it used to like it there. It would sit up on the tree top and try to sing an air. Although jackdaws aren't melodic, they tend to croak and caw, but it did its best and it was nicer than the sound of the hacksaw.
I know it was quite dark below the branches of the tree and on sunny days it blocked out light and overshadowed me, but I miss it;  miss the birds who sang within its leafy green, and the cats who tried to catch them by remaining there unseen.
I miss the gentle rustle of its leaves upon the breeze and the fact it blocked the view of all of those TVs' aerials, and washing lines and broken window panes that clutter up the back of homes along the village lanes.
Perhaps I'll plant another, though I'll have to wait awhile until a new tree manages to have the sort of style that the old tree had.
I have morons at the bottom of my garden.

Gardening

It's been a gardening sort of day. I thought I'd give you an extract from my 2010 NaNo novel. Based on reality and still in edit.

I took the photo, surreptitiously, from an upstairs window and he was not aware that I was there. He is wearing a white, open-necked shirt and dark trousers, rolled to the knees, to make way for a pair of workmanlike Wellington boots. On his head is the inevitable straw hat, protecting his ears and neck from the sun. I had been watching him for some time, turning over the ground with a spade and raising small terraces of earth where he was planning to plant potatoes. I was familiar with this ridge and furrow method that he used. It allowed the potatoes to grow freely in soil that was not compacted and did not inhibit their development. The furrows between the rows allowed efficient watering without swamping the plants, which would have encouraged disease. The preparation was effective and we had a regular supply of spuds from the earliest, sweet, new potatoes through to November’s bakers that we would use to warm our hands on Bonfire Night as we watched the whizzing, banging fireworks and burned our Guy Fawkes effigy.

The system was hard work though. He had to dig over the soil twice to break it up enough for the seed potatoes to go into the ground, and raking up the ridges was a back-breaking task. The photo shows him resting on his spade as he seeks a moment’s respite from the toil. Although it is faded I can see that he has nearly finished preparing the area and the rows have been built up behind him, ready for the seed. Beyond where he is standing I can make out squared-off sections that would each hold a different crop. I know there were strawberries, one of the few luxuries that Dad allowed space in his well-worked plot. There were cabbages and carrots, celery and lettuces, radishes, onions and rows of beans. Broad beans and French beans and runners stood side by side, with the climbers snaking their way up bamboo teepees made from three sticks tied with raffia near the top. I can recognise the shapes of four small apple trees near the end of the garden and there is a smudge of green that shows where the bramble grew.