Remember how on Valentine's Day this year I planted tomatoes, in lieu of buying myself red roses?
Shortly thereafter, I briefly fancied myself a master gardener. I imagined my windowsill teeming with plant life. I wouldn't stop at tomatoes, I decided: I'd also sow basil. Cilantro. Onions. Limes. I would not rest until I had an avocado orchard and could grow my own farm fresh guacamole!
But very quickly, it turned out that my green thumb is more of a black middle finger of death.
Because it's now been over three months, and my tomatoes aren't looking so hot. Earlier today, I was forced to prune yet more dead leaves as I sadly watch my dreams of a side business as a stew chef slip away.
I don't know what more I could - or should - have done. I followed the instructions. I kept the compost moist. I didn't overwater. I placed the tin indoors in a bright position "until danger of frost had passed." Fine, I didn't transplant them into the garden, but....well, I live in Central London. I don't have a garden. There's kinda nowhere to transplant them to!
So right now my sad, sad little wannabe tomato plant is bravely fighting a losing battle. I love it for trying. And I'll keep watering it and whispering sweet nothings to it until it's finally ready to go.
And then I'll have an empty tin to remember it by...or perhaps to double as a vase for some red roses.
Keep fighting, my friend.