Gardening, I always thought, was for old ladies suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome; they miss watching children grow so plant sunflowers instead. With a track record of owning plants that committed suicide I expected to become a fusty gardener around 68. Having prided myself on always having a good title: Vodka Strumpet, Ad Slut, PR … More Nature, that place where large birds fly about, uncooked.*
When a couple of eight-year-old mouthy boys starting fighting around my four-year-old, I watched intently –through the camera lens– to monitor exactly when I needed to sprint over and save him. Bob, unaware the big boys could pummel him to a pancake, put a hand on each arm and commanded, ‘Freeze!’ It has been his … More Summer Of Lovin’ And Not Being A Dick.