Village Living.

Picking tomatoes and rocket.

I've acquired a routine in the afternoons. The three feline rascals outside get fed and cuddled, the garden gets watered and often a load of washing taken off the line. Usually just after five. Lately I've included searching for those little ripe cherry tomatoes.

We've chosen the oddest of colours which made me overlook a ripe yellow one thinking it still had to lap up plenty of sunlight to turn red. Bob chose reds, yellows and oranges for which I am thankful now because they taste of tomatoes, sweet and juicy. Nothing close to a cardboard taste of store bought ones.

So there I am leaning over our high-bed to hunt for ripe tomatoes ( we've let the plants grow wild ) when our new neighbour spotted me through the jungle of zucchinis and with a wave came over to shoot the breeze. Gosh, we stood at our gate for ages talking about this and that. They are also getting a couple of kittens this weekend and I am most certainly going over to have a peep at them.

Having lived in a small town in South Africa of about 600 000 residents it was a nice transition to move to a small village in Burgenland. Bob, the master of understated comedy used to tell his friends that we were immigrating to a small place in Burgenland of a about three hundred, to which his friends replied; three hundred thousand?...

Despite there being a couple of social circles ( ! ), one can get by without joining in the eternal quest of copying or outdoing the Joneses. Only this morning one of my walking friends said that one should spend, do and travel when young because the older one gets, the less inclination one has to go further than out to the garden, dress in anything but jeans and t-shirt or to participate in image enhancing...wise words indeed.

Biggi