Sunday afternoon on “the farm” and I’m out in the vegetable garden, pottering around, trying to get the beds tidied up and weed-free.
I’ve extended a couple of the beds which has involved digging out a fair bit of turf and there’s nothing little piglets like better to play with than lumps of turf. It’s good for them too, providing iron until they go outside and get all the turf, soil and mud they want.
So I jab a nice big piece with the garden fork, shake off the excess soil and set off around the corner to the pig shed, casually disregarding the bright blue water pipe that crosses my path.
Size nine welly engages with blue pipe and gravity does its thing. The descending pig farmer lets go of garden fork which arrives on the ground shortly before the very top of my shinbone which connects with the fork handle.
I attempt a word, but the wind has been knocked out of me and I lie there, aware of the growing pain in my knee, speculating on the ageing process and trying to remember a time when I could take a knock.
Over the next couple of days my knee swells, leaving anything but the most straightforward tasks impossible. Now, nearly two weeks later it has improved, but a couple of hours strenuous work leaves me with the sensation of someone trying to lever my kneecap off with a screwdriver.
They never tell you about this on Gardeners’ World.
And here it is: