How I found unlikely sanity in soil

Now there's a sentence I never, ever thought I'd write

Sausage wondering who keeps putting pots on his bench

If I’m honest, it still bemuses me. How did I – urban to the core – become a person who gave a damn (not just a damn, if I’m honest, but hours of my time, energy and brain-space plus a certain amount of hard-earned cash) about a garden? I use the word loosely. My “garden” such as it is, consists of a 6ftish by 12ftish back yard, which appears to be what was left after the developer who refurbed our flat built the extension that makes up the kitchen-cum-diner-cum-everything room we more or less live in. It has a nice wall (as you can see!), it faces south/south west and it has zero dirt. Which means I have spent more than I’m prepared to admit on pots.

I guess it’s part of the whole shaking up my life, restoring(ish) my sanity rollercoaster I’ve been on in the last four or five years (I wrote previously, about how the relentless pursuit of busy busy busy gave me several breakdowns and, I’m absolutely certain, it would ultimately have …