Just coughing and coughing and coughing
is so very tiring. I haven’t had a cold, just this irritating tickly hacking cough.
I shall be putting the ice grips on my shoes this morning to go up to the market, hoping to find the village market gardener. I’m worried about him. He wasn’t there last Saturday, shrinking inside his ancient greeny black anorak. He only puts the hood down in midsummer, even then wringing his hands in a feeble attempt to warm them. His leeks, carrots and sprouts are like him, a bit wizened and small – I think he’s so anxious to sell them that they are never allowed to mature. I feel sorry for them, His potatoes are good, though. We aim to buy locally produced food wherever possible.