Buckets of blood

...and a good laugh too. I have just been to see Sweeney Todd, and enjoyed every second of it, from the first moment to the last. This surprised me, as I don't like musicals (or Tim Burton films) as a rule. I'll spare you any cringe-worthy amateur film critic spiel, but anyone who knows how wimpy I am in films, how often I have to look away, or if watching at home, have to pop out to put the kettle on during a nerve-wracking scene, will marvel at my ability to watch without flinching as throats were cut and bodies disposed of in the most gruesome manner. Go and see it, do, and then we can have an animated discussion or even a lively fight about it.

The Australia prep/BMI anxiety meant that I didn't have the usual two scoops of Ben & Jerry's ice cream to get me through the adverts and the trailers. Talk about self-discipline! (and forget about all those ginger biscuits last night...)

This morning, Sandra and I went to a new garden centre in preparation for the allotment season which will be upon us in no time, and we found garlic for Spring planting. This has comforted me a lot, as I missed (ie forgot) planting my garlic on the shortest day, unlike the admirable Barbara, who gardens seriously, and Roger, who gardens artistically (witness frog pond with beach and solar-powered aerator) and have been creeping about in shame ever since, anticipating a garlic-free year with embarrassing admissions as the allotmenteers compare results in August. I met an ex-work colleague last year who expressed amazement and even pity when I admitted to a poor tomato yield (well, about 8 tomatoes, really); she said she had been struggling to harvest all of hers and had needed all 3 greenhouses to grow them all. I withered in the force of her confidence and noted her authentically filthy nails. Gardening is not always good for one's self-worth, you know.

Sandra spent hours gazing at and comparing seed packets for both beetroot and carrots; these are her particular favourites. I know never to cross Sandra, as she has demonstrated her extraordinary inability to forgive a slight; she can still talk bitterly about last year's disappearing carrot seedlings and the holes in the beetroot. She doesn't care about my grief when all the lettuce bolts at once or the dwarf beans collapse and die, but speak lightly at your own peril of her vegetable tragedies.

The Lovely Son is coming home on Monday, to help with the heavy digging, wheelbarrow the manure from the allotment gate, and to repair the winter-worn fences. I can drift about waving my arms, issuing instructions and planning where to put that lovely Spring garlic, and Sandra can draw up her battle plans for total war on Mother Nature and her armies. I may post pictures of the current disgraceful and neglected plot, in the hope of having Before and After pictures later in the year that actually look different from each other.