Flesh and blood

Saturday, 8.30am, Royal Free Hospital. "You don't do pain?" says the doctor as he puts in the seventh stitch (though I can't look, so can't swear to any accuracy). A couple hours before, it had all been different. I was finishing up at the plot after weeding and watering when the thought struck: maybe cut off the garlic stems before bagging them up. But, somehow (how?) I missed the garlic and the sickle bit deep into my hand. I stared disbelieving at the ugly flap of flesh where the whole finger should be. This isn't good, I told myself quietly. It's before 7am on a Saturday morning and no one else is around. The hand went white. Then so did I. And then it started to bleed... After deciding not knock up a neighbour (didn't want to scare them before their breakfast), I wrapped the offending hand in tissue given to me by a woman I met walking her dog as though she saw blood-soaked men every morning and I headed off to the hospital. Jumped a passing 46 bus and somehow felt ashamed for messing up my fellow passengers' day. So seven stitches and a few hours later, no more weeding for a while. No more chopping garlic at the allotment ever. No more razor-sharp sickles, this one's edge can bear being a little more blunt. So here some pretty pictures of our stunning potatoes. They keep their colour after cooking and go down well with a bottle a red and a roast chicken stuffed with dangerous garlic. Now... anything happen in your garden this hot weekend?