Time for our annual gardening tips.

“Oh my my my. Goodness. No one is listening to me. I absolutely, positively know how to grow cucumbers. And rutagbeggers.” Philhomena, the gardener’s apprentice, is upset this morning. Obviously. Cartersnort, the main gardener, has just clipper her creative planting wings and she’s most peeved. “One more accumulative dismounting of my lettuce and I’ve had it. I’ll leave this place for the Framertoninglords. They’ll pay me double for the Montgomery secrets, I tell you!”
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“Hush and eat your meat or you won’t have any pudding,” it seems Cook is unconcerned with Philomena’s ire. “You’re likely to suffer from Globner’s Disease if you keep rejected potted meat, you know. And then what will you do?”
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“Ehhh? What did you say?” Philhomena asks.

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“That’s it, you’re already acquiring Globner’s at an alarming rate.” Cook leaves the room, stomping away in disgust. Today is freshing day and she’s looking forward to completing her chores. A long relax in the vestibule, that’s what she’s all about this day.
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Suddenly, Frobishire enters the room. “Out, out damned Spot. Why ever do you insist on feeding that cat on the chopping block? Surely you don’t intend to eat it.”

Cook steps back, aghast at Forbishire’s conclusion. “I’m leaving this room before I hear another word. MacEwan’s got a new display on the garden wall. It’s art I’m after, you old fart.”
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