Of compost piles, two were perfectly respectable, and two were wholly inadequate. And I guess I have taken this oath several dozen times before, but next year all compost piles will reflect perfection, and I will wander the hills whistling merrily, a skip in my step, as I explain to Rabbit and Mockingbirds what a wonderful person I am, and how if they too were as diligent as I, the world would be made safe from the Industrial Revolution.
I guess too, given the stress upon both the physical and mental parts of a
person that compost piles can deliver, there's a good chance I might not make it
through many more years of composting. Pretty soon now I'll be reduced to
'top dressing.' Hobbling around in a moo-moo, with a little bucket of leaf
mold and a teaspoon. Which could well be an optimism, because long
before that happens one or other of the hosepipes will have driven me insane.