Legends from our own lunchtimes

Sunday, June 15, 2014


At some point in the afternoon, Jacques let it be known that he was born in a garden.  Not in a house in a garden, not in a grand botanic garden somewhere, but straight slap bang in the middle of his mother’s vege patch.   He is convinced through the insight that has given him, that Maggie’s beans are planted too close together and that they are in some sort of peril.

We are convinced that perhaps he has hung on to the story of being found under a cabbage a just a little too long.

Yes, it was a long and glorious lunch, the kind that defines a perfect Sunday among friends, with blue skies and bright sunshine and perfect temperature and flowers and butterflies for accompaniment.   It did seem to go on for quite some time though, and while we weren’t exactly watching the time after the fourth course of dessert, discretion became the better part of valour, and we beat a gentle retreat ,rolling down the tow path back to the boat.   

The butterflies were tucking in all day as well it must be said, and while they had inarguably been born in a garden, and had been feasting on pollen and nectar all day, they were conspicuously absent from the discussion on the correct spacing of beans at planting time.   I wonder if they too went home and went to bed without the need for further sustenance.

Who said we need to be moving to have a good time?

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