Potatoes are one of life’s great simple pleasures
My wife found the list in the back pocket of my gardening trousers. That ought to have been a clue, but she didn’t pick up on it. She marched into the study with an interrogative stride. ‘Who the hell are Mimi? Orla? Charlotte? Anya? Lady Christl!?’ I felt a pang of relief that she hadn’t found my ‘tasting notes’ as well. ‘Charlotte – firm, puts out well, nice finish.’ If my wife had been a gardener or an allotmenteer she would have recognised the names as varieties of spud. Still, I can’t blame her. The faintly porny air does persist, as do some mysteries. Mimi, for instance – a redhead, ‘small, but plentiful’ – disappeared suddenly some years ago and no one knows exactly why.
