As a friend put it, I’m the proud parent of a tomato plant. Actually three, I should have said, but who’s counting? And she’s right about one thing – I am proud.
Upon spotting a perfectly-formed tom swaying softly on its truss recently, there was nothing to do but pluck it off and show it to my husband.
Considering the number of spotty and slightly oddly-shaped specimens I’d harvested so far, it was as close to perfection (or what you’d find in the supermarket veggie section) as I’m likely to manage.
“Look babe, it’s so pretty,” I twittered, brandishing said specimen. Looking up from the couch, hubby was supportive but didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. Men!
For reasons unbeknownst to me, this year’s crop is light years ahead of my last piddly effort. I’m not exactly sure why this is, but I do have a theory or three.
Firstly, this time around I took a different approach – leave well alone. Well, not quite, but I was less ruthless in cutting off blight and as a result, the plants don’t look like they’ve been hacked at by a drunken Edward Scissorhands.
Secondly, I put the plants on a sunny balcony, which seems to have done wonders for their growth. I had my doubts whether the tomatoes would cope with the wind rushing through, but they’re hardier than I thought.
Thirdly, well, maybe it’s just the luck of the draw.
