Henry has just informed me that the best source of nitrogen is, if you'll forgive me, urine. Apparently urine mixed with wood ash is an excellent feed for tomatoes.
'We should cheerfully p*** in a bucket from now on,' he suggested. 'And get the Goslings to p*** in a bucket, too.'
Wood ash is no problem. For the past few months we could only keep warm by burning all the frightful modern Victorian furniture. But p***ing in a bucket - well, it's all right for the men. As usual, they triumph. How I hate them all, except Henry. I wonder, if one were to collect all such effusions over a lifetime, what would result? The Serpentine?
How to initiate a discussion on this subject with Mrs Gosling is something of a challenge.Went to the kitchen and endured a long conversation about jam tarts. Valiantly tried to think of a connection between shortcrust pastry and p***ing in a bucket, but failed to steer the conversation in the required direction. Fear she would have dragged God into it. Came away exhausted and convinced that Mrs Gosling never p***es at all - is not, in fact, human.
Paced up and down the North Border, which looks sublime. It seems to be doing very well on the muck from the vicarage stables and the prep school. I think I shall refrain from the bucket project. It is too far beneath me. And I am uneasy about the servants' p*** mingling with ours. It might lead to social unrest, to who knows what? - An explosion, perhaps. Nitrogen is a minefield.
On the bright side, I have discovered a lovely little night-scented flower called Zaluzianskya. Sounds like a Russian countess just waiting to be fascinated.
...Perhaps I should write to Venus offering an olive branch? No, I am too tired. I am too tired even for a bit of light pricking-out. I shall vanish for a while beneath the oaks.
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