'Dad was one of the world's finest writers, but I recall only the pictures'
The evenings are getting longer and the geese are getting fat. Before we know it, Lent will be over and I'm beginning to wonder if there's any point at all in giving up sweets and drink.
As ever, I've given up broccoli, although a man who is full of little and large enough wisdoms told me only today that a clove of broccoli is very nice when it's roasted. Or is it a clump of broccoli, or a sprig, like shamrock.
The same man says there's more vitamin C in one Brussels sprout than an orange. I'm not sure if that's true and his proposition is a definite argument for the premise that size doesn't matter. I wouldn't be gone on the sprouts either. For some reason, I turned against all the good vegetables when I was a child. I do like carrots, though, especially the bunches from the sandy soil of the Maharees, but I still can't see in the dark, which was the promise that was made if we ate up our carrots.