We woke up on Saturday morning, after a spate of shitty weekends, determined to have ourselves a good ‘un. Plans were made, bonhomie was plentiful, children were bribed into compliance with biscuits (yes, even Moo. Judge away, you cannot touch me).
We’ve got a gorgeous Pick Your Own farm near us called Pickwells. We’ve never been, although we’ve attempted to go several times, before being thwarted by inclement weather / vanishing time / the kids being bellends. Today, though, on The Day Of Lovely Things, by Christ we went to that PYO farm. We enjoyed zooming up and down the rows of strawberries, surprised and pleased to find a bit of late croppage and some juicy fruits waiting to be picked. Mouse was mildly incredulous to begin with.
“What, we pick them from the ground? Who is their daddy? Can I touch the black fluffy ones? Can I eat them?”
“Yes; Nature; No; and Yes, but do it discretely.”
Then came the aim of the game, the modus operandi, the A-lister. A gargantuan field of pumpkins. Dear Reader, I’m going to carve pumpkins for Halloween this year. I’m going to get to Poundworld for a carving set and some battery operated tealights, and I’m going to trawl Pinterest, and I’m going to own it. Maybe. At the very least I’ll scoop out some flesh and make a pumpkin pie because I’m legit good at that.
I set Mouse to work. “I need to take a good photo of you for my blog so can you just go and stand by a pumpkin and look ruddy and at one with nature please?” She failed to comprehend the “stand by a pumpkin” part and tried to carry this orange monolith back to the wheelbarrow, covering her brand new tights in mud, but I couldn’t fault her enthusiasm.
(If, in a few weeks, I don’t use this weekly feature to showcase a beautiful array of carved pumpkins, and instead present to you a photo of some pumpkin pie, you’ll know that it didn’t go to plan. Which will probably be Pinterest’s fault, yes?)