Taking stock of returns from the garden with an imperial caller

HER Majesty, the mother-in-law, arrived to conduct her review of the harvest of 2020. This was not the advertised cause for the royal carriage to come rolling up the drive to Medders Manor. The stated reason for the regal presence was to enjoy a family meal. Indeed, Hermione pulled out all the stops to provide a tasty dinner for the occasion.

But it was soon clear that the food was incidental in the mind of our guest. HM was intent on hearing in itemised detail how her hosts have fared this year on the horticultural front. She did little more than pick at the courgette fritters which were put in front of her for starters.

‘We have torn up our courgette plants on The Estate, you know,’ she revealed, her voice dripping with regal disdain. ‘They tend to produce what may be called a glut.’

No need to tell us about the courgette glut. We know all about the courgette glut. Courgette fritter starters are a sure indicator of the courgette glut.

‘We have rather been putting all our energies into asparagus instead,’ she continued. ‘I don’t suppose you have any asparagus?’

She supposed right. Our asparagus has long since succumbed to the combination of weeds and a shortage of dung.

‘Well I presume that at least you managed to produce a few tomatoes?’ She raised a stately eyebrow.

Presume away, missus. Tomatoes we are not short of. They may not match the quality achieved on The Estate but there are plenty of them, rest assured.

‘And onions?’ The interrogation was gathering pace.

We were able to re-assure her that this has been a good year for the onions. Hermione explained that the homegrown onions and tomatoes had been used in the vegetable stew now being served.

‘Aha!’ she adjusted her gem-studded spectacles to give the stew her full attention. ‘And I see that you had a courgette or two left over to add to the blend.’

Well spotted, your majesty. You will find courgettes these days in everything that comes out of our kitchen, except maybe the ice-cream.

‘I note broad beans in the mix.’ She had fished a bean out with her spoon and was submitting it to close examination. ‘Well done.’

We basked for a few moments in the glow of imperial praise. Just a few moments.

‘Aubergine! I am never sure about aubergine. You never told me about the aubergine.’

We never told her about the chilli peppers either but, when she finally gave up dissecting and started to eat, the eyes all but popped out of her head. We laughed like naughty children and passed her a large glass of water to hose down the fire.

Here is the latest entry in the ‘Worst Joke Ever Told’ competition,an effort at humour which qualifies for consideration as worst ever on several counts.First, knowledge of 1970s pop music is required or there is no gag, no mirth, no reason to smile.Second, it helps to have a grasp of Irish geography, not something which should be taken for granted.Third, an ear for melody is also of assistance as the punch-line is sung rather than spoken.You have been warned…

Our simple tale concerns that well known composer of hits, Gilbert O’Sullivan and, at the time of our little tale, he is living in Dublin. The purveyor of pop reckons that he needs a holiday and he has his heart set on a vacation in Kerry.

He feels that it would be relaxing to travel to The Kingdom with CIE. Unfortunately, he repeatedly gets mixed up and catches the express to Galway instead by mistake. After several such mishaps Gilbert eventually decides to give the rail service one last try.

He is convinced that this time he is finally aboard the correct train. So confident is he that he falls sound asleep for an hour or two, until he is woken up on arrival at a station.

He peers out the window, full of expectation that he is all set to breath Kerry air and enjoy Kerry hospitality until he reads station name plate, and then he bursts into doleful song:

‘Athlone again, not Tralee.’ Geddit? Feel free to titter.