At the back of our house, just by the corner facing South, there is a patch of garden which I have designated as the vegetable patch. I have over the years grown several vegetables there, but in particular, the area closest to the house has always been dedicated to broccoli. I don’t mind broccoli. I would not order it at a restaurant in preference to steak, or a pizza, but I tolerate it as presumably it tolerates me. I regard it as green cauliflower; which I suppose it is in a way.
Anyway, that aside, I regret to announce that the young painter who was painting the windows at the back of our house fell off his ladder and into the broccoli patch, as did his father before him, and his grandfather before him, and his uncle before him too.