We do NOT have a potato (or, if you’re feeling a little “archaic,” potatoe) large enough to remedy the light-socket mishap I caused the other day. Any other time we’d have an enormous bag of spuds growing eyes as tall as daffodils (or as long as garden hoses – I wish I was kidding).

And why is it that if I can find my gardening gloves (a superb pair of Foxgloves, incidentally), I cannot find my secateurs? And if I locate my secateurs my gloves are no where to be seen. And, at the moment, since it’s the secateurs I really need, I readily located my Foxgloves.

This has CONSPIRACY written all over it.