String.

I was building a support structure for my sugar snap peas today, and made a startling discovery. I like string – a lot. It has to be the right kind of string, of course. Nylon string is horrible. Even though the stuff I unwound from some discarded fishing net on a beach in Northumberland once is strong enough to lift a battleship, it’s still horrible. Apart from the fact that it doesn’t tie well, it feels artificial – and it’s orange! Orange string. Pfhh...

The string I bought for the spring garden work this year is natural jute twine, not the dark green coloured variety. It’s a pleasure to work with. Simple, naturally textured, unpretentious, functional – and it has an earthy but sweet smell that I can’t stop sniffing. I’ve become a string sniffer. Blow me; after all these years I’ve found my substance.

Two other notes before you go away again:

Hello and welcome to Lauren. Glasgow! Now that really is exotic. ‘Scottish steel and Irish fire,’ as one Glaswegian once described the character. Billy Connolly, Rab C, the gritty romance of the Clyde... The only time I drove through it, I got stuck in the slowest moving traffic jam ever. I was late getting to the Highlands, but never mind. The journey isn’t about getting there, is it?

And don’t forget, Mr Grimshaw goes up at the other place tomorrow.

Off you go.