9:00 on Christmas Eve morning. The temperature keeps fluctuating between 30 and 31 degrees, and the sky is overcast with solid grey clouds. I am sitting by the woodstove, surrounded by two contented cats and a mournful looking Golden Retriever. These cold morning outdoor excursions never last quite long enough for energetic pup. He doesn’t seem to understand that his heavy, golden coat can hold a lot more heat than my human skin.

We took a quick stroll out to the garden. The back forty is in full winter dress now, brown and spikey with only a few brave herbs showing any signs of green. Winter is the favorite season of theoretical farmers. We feel absolutely no pressure from the outside world to stop talking and get on with planting. Nobody except the hardcore, year-round gardener is out on bleak mid-winter mornings tilling the soil and planting seeds. The rest of the world joins our contemplative state and is somewhat content to muse over seed catalogues, planting charts and garden journals. For once, we theorists are among the inactive majority. 

The flurry of shopping, baking and wrapping is over for the season. Soon, a different buzz of activity will take over: delivering presents, greeting family and exchanging overflowing plates of sweets with the neighbors. Our little town savors its peaceful state while suffering alongside our northern neighbors as they mourn the irrational loss of a classroom full of children. And yet, we received our own alarms on the last day before break. Our own schoolhouse was watchfully guarded by a collection of uniformed officers. We all seem to hover on the edge of uncertainty while fervently praying for peace on earth. 

The house is quiet with only an occasional mournful sigh circling the air. The pup is not content to simply enjoy the fireside warmth. Perhaps someone with more energy than I will wake up soon and let the poor doggie run outside awhile.  In the meantime, I will avoid his doleful countenance and move a little closer to the heat.

According to the gardening books, it’s time to put the garden to sleep for the winter. Not that my little patch was completely awake during the growing season, but it did produce a few vegetables and a good many herbs. 

I like getting the garden ready for winter. Expectations are low; in fact, all that matters is that I pull the weeds and pile them on a compost heap. Preparing the soil to rest is like stripping old paint from an antique dresser. You simply can’t hurt anything; it already looks as bad as it ever will.

The sage and mint are continuing to persevere amidst the relatively cold nights and chilly days of mid to late autumn. They will shine even more when I remove the dead, gangly stalks of brown plant material: they’re a true tribute to the robustness of domesticated weeds.

Finding time to clear out the garden seems to be my biggest challenge. The sun dips behind the horizon shortly after 5 pm these days. By the time I close down the computer and push in the last chair in my classroom, the large lunar fireball is already dipping dangerously low in the sky. We do have a few holidays coming up in the next couple of days. Thanksgiving is near, and the Powers that Be have seen fit to give us three entire free days this year…more than we have ever had before. Perhaps I will spend the frantic hours of “black Friday” puttering away in the back forty. Stacking weeds seems so much more restful than pushing through throngs of agitated bodies at the local mall. Such clamor and clutter messes with the minds of theoretical farmers---way too much reality for our philosophical brains to process.

Between now and Friday, perhaps I will do a bit more research on proper winter gardening for our neck of the woods. I still haven’t given up on horseradish and carrots, although I suspect I should have planted them much earlier… Whatever the case, I am looking forward to several uninterrupted hours in my garden. I’ve missed our time together. 

Late Autumn Mint

Fall has come to the Shenandoah Valley in full force. We seem to have bypassed any type of Indian Summer and temperatures have settled in at around 45 degrees by day and down to 30 at night. Delicate plants such as basil and green peppers have turned black and limp from frost while the more hearty herbs like rosemary and thyme are still thriving. I think the Last Rose of Summer fell apart into brown-edged petals yesterday. It was still clinging bravely to the vine when I left to go grocery shopping. By the time I returned home, the wind had dislodged it and all that was left on the vine was the center of the flower, looking frail and rather pathetic in the watery su

I love the change of seasons, and it suits me just fine that summer chose to exit without lingering goodbyes. Still, I still feel the need to play in the dirt a bit. I’m not quite ready to give up gardening yet. I talked to a seasoned farmer at church this morning and asked him if I could grow anything now. He was rather cryptic in his answer. “Yeah, there are lots of things you can grow now.” I waited for him to continue but he had stopped talking and was obviously not going to enlighten me on the bounty of late fall growing. I prodded a bit further and asked if I could plant onions. “No,” he said, shaking his head solemnly, “you don’t want to plant onions now. They will freeze in the ground.” What about carrots, I continued. “Not so sure. Maybe.” Such was the extent of my interview. Perhaps I shall just resort to Google.

Or more likely I will create a lush winter garden inside my head. After all, I am a theoretical farmer still and there is no pressure to  have anything to show for my intensive labors of the mind!

Hurricane Sandy is rattling the shutters and trying her best to come inside. I am trying just as hard to keep her out. Right now, our little brick ranch holds six adults, three cats, one parakeet and a quite large Golden Retriever. There is simply no space for an uninvited storm to lounge about. 

They call her a “Frankenstorm,” and so far, just the mention of her name has shut down schools, closed businesses and caused general panic in bread aisle at the grocery stores. I am hearing reports of flooded basements, downed trees and power outages. So far, we haven’t had any damage, but I’m not sure I like the way the sound of the wind has changed from a casual whistle to a haunting howl.

The Derecho storm in June knocked out seven trees in the back forty. Sandy seems to be taking a different path with winds spiraling from the Northeast. The Mulberry tree will probably take the brunt of the damage this time around. Poor tree. Part of the trunk looks unwell anyway and it bore very little fruit this summer. Guess I’ll need to do some research into tree health---assuming it’s still standing in the morning.

Another thing I would like to research is the way moisture in the air interacts with light and cameras. I took a picture of a path-lamp at the park last evening, just before the storm began. Take a look at the contrast of shadow and light. I have never taken a photo like this before; it almost looks as though I touched it up on a photo editor. But it’s the original shot---straight from my cheap little camera.

So many fascinating subjects to explore! Again, I am thankful to be a theoretical farmer. Living in the world of theory allows such flexibility and variety in research. And the best part is the fact that it really doesn’t matter if I find any answers or if I just continue to ask questions. Both states of knowledge are equally rewarding. 

I’m not sure where summer went, but I think I passed it somewhere going South on Interstate 81. It seemed in quite a rush, dragging a wagon full of old beach towels, stretched bathing suits and picnic baskets. I have spent the past six months on the outside looking in. Working furiously to finish up a graduate degree has afforded me little opportunity to be part of nature and her diversions. Lately, I have observed several seasons as they passed by, but was never able to be part of the menagerie of attractions they offered.

Needless to say, my garden has grown up in a happy mixture of weeds and herbs—the only kinds of living, green plants that can survive without some sort of nurturing. I had good intentions: I dug up the patch, spread a couple of bales of straw and planted some seeds. I even put fertilizer on the whole lot. But then, classes started and while my tender young plants needed to be cultivated and cherished, I was deep in academic periodicals and university databases.

Now, I am a “theoretical farmer” by self-definition, but not a scholar at heart. While I like to surmise about the inner workings of people, animals and plants (if indeed plants have inner workings), I am not enamored with reading stilted language and analyzing academic minutia. I am happy to say that I am on my final project, and soon, this scholastic plodding will be history. I am looking forward to sifting through the stalks of dried weeds in my garden patch. I’m hoping to find enough herbs to cut and harvest before a killing frost makes its appearance. At least I will be able to gather something this year, even if the bounty of my crop consists of a few hearty sage leaves and a half-bucket of thyme!

The back forty looks like a disaster area. We had quite a storm move through the Valley Friday evening. The weather-folk call it a Derecho: an unusually strong storm that, fortunately, doesn’t grace us with its presence too often. Derecho means “straight” (or “right”) in Spanish, and it definitely lived up to its name: the gust blew in a precise beeline, pushing over anything in its path. Unfortunately, we had about seven trees standing directly along the route the wind decided to take.

We spent most of Saturday morning pushing against the 90+ degree heat, trying to move the limbs and branches from neighbors’ yards. We still have multiple piles of debris that still need to be cleaned up, but all in all, we fared well. Many of our friends lost electrical power and had to deal with thawing freezers, no air conditioning (or fans!) and dwindling water supplies. There was a run on ice and water; most of our local stores ran out of these staples long before many folks were able to stock up.

The area gardens seem to be resilient, though. Saturday, the cornfields looked rather pathetic with all of their towering stalks lying horizontally across the field. By Sunday afternoon, however, most of the corn had straightened and looked no worse for the wear.  My broccoli plants (already suffering from the direct attention of some little green worms) are still leaning a bit to the East. Hopefully they will survive nature’s onslaughts.

But enough musing for this morning. The weeds are having a heyday in my tomato patch, and such foolishness must be stopped! Even theoretical farmers get their hands dirty once in awhile.

I have decided that there is nothing like a dish of fresh peas to make a spring day perfect! Yesterday afternoon around lunchtime, I went to the garden hoping to rescue a few final pods before I pulled up the vines to plant the jalapeños. This spring has been unseasonably warm in the Shenandoah Valley, and the peas have not been happy at all with temperatures hovering around 90 degrees. To my surprise, there were still quite a few chubby shells hanging bravely on the wilted pea plants. Enough pods to fill a little bowl with springtime goodness!

I found a perfect recipe for fresh peas: Bring a small amount of water to boil, add shelled peas, return to a boil and heat for about 10 seconds. This creates a sweet, firm texture and the peas literally pop in your mouth!

In other gardening news, I think I harvested the elephant garlic too soon. At least that’s what Edna tells me. But there were flowers forming on top of the plants, so I thought it was time to dig up the bulbs. The garlic seems to be fine, although I will admit the bulbs  would probably have gotten bigger had I heeded my neighbor’s advice (not that I’d ever tell her that!).  Nevertheless, I now have a garage full of fragrant garlic braids, drying in the steaming heat of this too-early summer. 

The rabbits are eyeing my newly planted broccoli plants. I reminded them that I didn’t mind sharing as long as I didn’t know I was sharing! I hope they understood the gravity in my voice. We negotiated quite well with the spinach, I can only assume we will divide the broccoli crop equally well.

Seven more days in the Schoolhouse, and then I will be a full time Theoretical Farmer. I am certainly looking forward to changing hats.

Broadway, VA                                    May 4                                                7:58 am

Be not sick too late, nor well too soon.  –Ben Franklin 

My nose is in a tizzy today; it’s all because of those lovely bits of color that are dotting our landscape this time of year. Shenandoah Valley Spring has many floral faces. The velvety petals pop up; tentative at first, and then with increasing energy the purples, pinks, whites and yellows of early May turn to the periwinkles, fuchsias, ivories and ambers of June. Unfortunately for some of us, each lovely leaflet holds its own brand of tiny pollen particles. These groups of spores wreak havoc on nasal passages and sinus cavities, and declare an all out war on comfortable living.  In other words, I’m fighting spring allergies again!

I could probably write the pollen count section of the National Weather Service forecast. My nose is a relatively good indicator of how much of the powdery stuff is invading the air on any given day. The tissue box on my desk also tells tales. I got tired of watching my seventh graders catch their nasal drips on their shirt sleeves, so I made a trek to the store and bought another supply of “extra soft, strong, absorbent, nose-sensitive” paper handkerchiefs. We’re all sniffling together.

I read bits of an empirical study on Atmospheric BioGeoscience of the Shenandoah Valley (the title itself should have warned me), but I wasn’t able to wade through the science-speak well enough to come to a rational conclusion as to why our mountains seem to trap a whole slew of allergy-causing varmints. Maybe they retire here for the same reason people seem to gravitate to this little spot in the world:  an inviting climate, good restaurants and friendly folk. Whatever the case, they’re here for the duration and there’s not a whole lot we can do about ‘em! Except maybe stock up on tissues and allergy pills.

Broadway, VA                        70 degrees                                                12:13 pm 

Fatigue is the best pillow.  – Ben Franklin 

I don’t think the robins ever left. There have been at least two orange-breasted fowls in my backyard since last summer. This morning, they were holding a conference around a piece of dried bread I threw out for the sparrows. I believe their internal clocks are a bit befuddled since we, for all intents and purposes, did not have a proper winter.

The robins are not the only perplexed creatures scratching their heads and wondering if global warming has slipped through a time warp and is covering us in a blanket of unnatural warmness. The mosquitoes have also formed a coup and are attacking human flesh. They appear to have an extra dose of bravery since winter did not freeze their troops out this year.

Human creatures also seem to be off kilter. We lost an hour's worth of sleep this week, and that can probably count for some of the general lethargy. But there’s something more to the sluggishness — a sort of unbalance, like a shutter becoming unhinged or a cupboard drawer off its track. I suppose if you live in a tropical climate and are used to warm weather all the time, you don’t miss the cool, calm chill that a true winter brings. But this is the only instance in my lifetime that winter simply didn’t show up. 

I see the winter months as a sort of Sabbath. A time apart from the general ruckus of daily life. Everything slows down — everything from bug larvae to human commotion takes a hiatus. But this year, we didn’t have that break here in the Shenandoah Valley. We continued, full steam ahead, hoping for a blizzard or an ice storm to grind our actions to a halt. But inclement weather didn’t come. And here we are, tired, puzzled and wondering how we are going to keep up the momentum until next December when, hopefully, seasonal temperatures find us.

Take time for all things: great haste makes great waste.   Benjamin Franklin 

Broadway, VA                        February 21              39 degrees                 8:14 pm

 Planted the peas Saturday – finally!  We’re trying another raised bed; hopefully enriched, fertilized soil will produce better than hard clay. I am hankering for fresh vegetables, but the farmers market signs are still covered for the winter, and my spinach plants are still only about a half inch high.

I made salsa the other day.  Found the old recipe on the back of a yellowing piece of scrap paper tucked in a mystery book that I hadn’t the interest to finish. Of course the salsa tastes 100 times better in the summer when you can use garden-fresh vegetables, but you can still make a passable version with the store bought stuff.

Summer Salsa (in the Winter) 

8 tomatoes, peeled and diced

½ large onion, chopped

½ green pepper, chopped

3 jalapeño peppers, chopped

2 tsp. garlic powder (I use fresh garlic)

2 tsp. salt

2 TBS fresh parsley

¼ c. vinegar

¼ tsp. cumin

Place chopped vegetables and spices in a large pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until vegetables are medium-soft. Pour salsa into jars and seal.  ENJOY!

 He that would live in peace and at ease must not speak all he knows or all he sees. – Ben Franklin 

Broadway, Virginia; February 7; 38 degrees; 8:40 pm

Sitting in my favorite coffee shop eating a 3-inch carrot-cake cookie, topped with about half an inch of sour cream frosting. Not a bad way to spend a Tuesday evening. The grocery store was packed a while ago. The weatherman’s calling for a little bit of winter weather in the morning. Good thing I didn’t need milk or bread; selections were pretty limited. Stockpiling for potential bad weather seems to be almost an instinct. I doubt that too many of us are truly susceptible to being snowbound, though. Those who do live on back roads usually come pre-packaged with hefty SUVs or 4-wheel-drive mountain trucks. So what is the psychology behind laying bare the grocery shelves when the forecast hints of snow?

My exciting news of the day came in the form of a couple of quarter-inch, two-leaved spinach plants peppering the top soil on my first raised bed. I had a little tête à tête with a bright-eyed bunny hovering on the edge of the brush pile. We talked a little bit about briar patches, the upcoming winter, and about the 120-pound Golden Retriever who lives in my house. We also discussed settling rights and the fact that I owned the garden patch (as much as any of us ever own land).  He seemed to understand that I didn’t mind sharing the spinach and arugula as long as I didn’t really know I was sharing. I cautioned him to be subtle in his movements and shrewd in his dealings with my garden. We parted on good terms, I think.

The full moon is magnificent tonight. The Other Almanac says February’s full moon is called the Full Snow Moon. Traditionally, we tend to have more snow this month than any other. So far, we haven’t seen much of a winter. Maybe things will change.  I’ve also heard that the moon this month has been called the Full Hunger Moon. Animals and humans alike often have difficulty finding food on the harsh and frozen ground. I guess the bunny was just planning ahead.

I suppose real farmers are beginning to feel the tug of the outdoors and sense the lure of spring planting. As a theoretical farmer, I’m also conscious of this seasonal turning point. I just don’t feel the weight of the labor that is about to begin. I will till my little patch, grow my bowls full of vegetables and try to keep the rodents at bay. I’m quite content to supplement my meager harvest with bushels of produce from the Farmers' Market. We theoretical farmers always have a backup system.

Broadway, VA                        February 2                  45 degrees                   7:21 pm

Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.  

--Benjamin Franklin  

These sixty-degree days are driving everybody crazy. The Schoolhouse is tipping on its end with bottled up adolescent energy, cars are crashing into each other with uncommon fury. Even Mother Nature is baffled. The forsythia bushes are blooming, the lilacs budding and the nasopharyngitis virus (aka the common cold) is slashing through the town like a Norse berserker.  Just heard that Punxutawney Phil saw his shadow, so maybe there is still hope for a few good blizzards and a couple of ice storms before Spring pays its annual call. Sure hope so.

I might have a tiller if I can get the parts to fix it. My 81-year-old uncle, Berlin, has decided to give up gardening. Unpredictable health and increasing arthritic joint pain have finally forced him to hang up the trowel and pack away the rubber boots. He said I could have his pride and joy:  the ancient, cobweb-covered garden tiller parked in a corner of an old out building. Last time he had it going, it purred like a kitten. Or so he tells me. Now, it looks more like a rusted metal dragon than a functioning machine. Still, it’s the best offer I’ve had yet.  His birthday is on Saturday. Maybe I’ll go for a visit, take him a card and casually hoist the antique metal contraption on the back of the pick-up; see if I can perform a minor miracle and get the engine running again.

When I was a kid, Uncle Berlin was the consummate green bean picker. The women in his life were pampered, as true Southern Belles were wont to expect. He would never allow any of us (even me – a 6 year old tomboy) to kneel in the rows of green vines and pick the sticky, warm vegetables. Our job was to string, snap, wash, pack and can the beans, not to soil our hands with garden dirt. Green bean canning day was an event in itself---a day full of activity, story telling and family bonding. But that’s a tale for another day. The woodstove is crackling; one Kat is stretched, belly up, on the rug, and my eyes are becoming exceptionally heavy.  I feel a snooze coming on.

Broadway, VA                        January 27                  45 degrees                   9:01pm

Never confuse motion with action.  – Ben Franklin 

March 20: the date of the 2012 Vernal Equinox, and the day Cousin Effie will arrive at the Charlottesville train station. They tell me that the first day of spring and the first day of fall are the only times when the earth is truly bipolar: the North and South Poles are straight up and down with nary a tilt in any direction. Seems fitting, then, that Miss Effie should make her appearance on such a day when there are equal amounts of daylight and nighttime; a period when the earth appears to be symmetrical and everything is precisely in its place. She would expect nothing less.

According to Another Almanac, there are a couple of flower seeds that should be started indoors in January.  Took a quick peek at the calendar and discovered that if I am going to do any kind of planting in January, I’d better get started. I love Sweet Williams; they remind me of my grandmother and stir up some vague images of my great-grandmother. Anyway, they’re on the early planting list, along with Columbine, Lupine and Statice.  They also mention Zinnias, but I had great luck just tossing the seeds on top of the ground long about the last of May.  I need to figure out what type of peas to try and I guess I should put some fertilizer on the strawberry plants. Never a dull moment in the world of a theoretical farmer. Can’t imagine how busy real farmers must be. 

Miracle of miracles! Edna told me today that the guys took the roadblock down from the Kinglsey Bridge.  Either they have finally finished repairing it or they are inviting folks to take a plunge off the side into the North Fork of the Shenandoah. Think I’ll wait awhile before I try to cross it. Just in case.

Tomorrow’s Saturday. I should probably make a trek into town to see if the Farm Bureau has onion sets out yet. I’m a little curious what Edna has decided about the greenhouse. Not that I would ask her. Hoyt Miller won’t mind dispensing a little information though. Not if I take him a bag of dry, roasted peanuts and a little can of snuff. Nothing is free these days. 

To succeed, jump as quickly at opportunities as you do at conclusions. – Benjamin Franklin 

Broadway, Virginia; 37 degrees; 12:50 pm 

The sky has been spitting rainy mist for the past couple of days—good for the soil but hard on the bones! I haven’t been out to check on the garden for a few days. Don’t suppose much has changed yet; we haven’t had enough sunshine to warm up the ground. Those little seeds are picky. Conditions have to be just right before they will poke their little tendrils out of the dirt.

I’ve been researching the difference between heirloom and hybrid tomatoes. I used to have an old paper towel covered in tomato seeds. An elderly lady gave them to me and said they were the best tomatoes on God’s green earth. Alas, I am not always a good steward of my possessions, and I mislaid the little paper square. I guess I’ll have to go with hybrids.  I know some seed companies say they sell heirloom plants, but to my way of thinking, the seeds are not authentic unless they have been saved year after year by some grandma in a bonnet and calico apron.

I usually plant a large, beefy tomato such as Beefsteak or Big Beef – one of those bovine-like names. I also like to put in some Roma plants as well as they make for good sauce, juice and salsa.  Edna wants me to enter the biggest tomato contest at the fair this year. I’m not much into competition unless I’m pretty sure I can win. I wish you could just wait and see how big the little fellows were growing before you put your name on the dotted line of the contest form. Unfortunately, they make you sign up long before you know the outcome of your crop. Maybe if I ever turn from a theoretical farmer to an actual farmer I will be brave enough to enter.

Edna is still fretting over Cousin Effie taking over the southern bedroom during seedling-growing time. I heard her talking to Hoyt Miller at the Farm Bureau the other day about the possibility of building a mini greenhouse behind her place. Some people sure take their gardening seriously. My biggest worries are the three Fat Kats that live in my house. They usually commandeer the sunniest spots and don’t take too kindly to little pots of plants lined up in their cozy corner. Farming is a never-ending battle with nature.

  

If you wou’d have Guests merry with your cheer, Be so your self, or so at least appear. – Ben Franklin  (Poor Richard’s Almanack)  

Broadway, Virginia; 29 degrees; 7:30 pm

The combination of light snow and a nearly full moon set the Schoolhouse on edge yesterday. (To clarify my connection with the Schoolhouse, allow me to insert the fact that since theoretical farming tends to pay in theoretical dollars, I am obliged to find supplemental income in the form of true, hard cash. In order to earn the money to nurture my theories, I spend roughly 180 days pontificating on the joys of the English Language to a captive audience with a median age of 12.)  But back to the subject at hand … normally sedate young teens were teetering on the edges of their seats, trying hard to conjugate verbs while surreptitiously ripping notebook paper into tiny shreds for part of an ancient snow dance ritual. Moon phases and barometric pressure definitely have their effects on mood and personality.

  
The "last rose of summer" pushing through the dusting of snow. 

And speaking of moods, Edna is rather distracted today as well. In fact, she’s in such a kerfuffle she refused a second helping of Santa Fe Tiramisu and had only one cup of Earl Grey this morning. Poor woman just found out that cousin Effie from Culpeper is planning to visit next week. Now cousin Effie is a trial to contend with on her own, (not to mention her miniature poodle, Sir Winston), but blue-haired snobbishness and gourmet kibbles are not what is bothering Edna. Nah, what has Edna’s bloomers in a bunch is that fact that when Effie visits, she demands the south-facing bedroom; the one Edna uses to house her seedlings until late spring.  With the southern room occupied, the only place she has left to raise her fledgling plants is the little study on the north end of the house — a dank, dark, chilly place not at all conducive to photosynthesis. But anyone who has ever had the dubious honor of meeting the redoubtable Miss Effie knows that she is not one to contend with. I would offer Edna some window space at my place, but I really don’t have any room to spare… Oh well, I’m sure she’ll figure something out.  If not, maybe I’ll have a chance at the prize-winning tomato at the county fair this year.

With the old Almanack and the old Year, Leave thy old Vices, tho’ ever so dear. – Ben Franklin 

Broadway, Virginia; January 7; 6:40 pm and 54 degrees

I should have planted the spinach today. The unseasonably warm temperatures and light mist would have created a perfect environment to send the little seeds on their way to germination. But alas, I am not clairvoyant. I buried the little dried pods last week amidst snow flurries, stiff winds and below freezing temperatures.

One of my perennial New Years resolutions is to take my gardening hobby more seriously. As part of that resolve I’m trying my hand at raised beds, or at least a primitive form of raised bed. Edna snickers into her French knot embroidered handkerchief every time I mention my new gardening style, but I can’t help but think it will be an improvement over trying to coax life out of the poor soil in the current garden patch.

I found a couple of old 2 x 4’s and a bag of potting soil, put the two together and came up with a structure to house the spinach and arugula. I covered the lot with a pile of old leaves and a couple of left over pine branches from the Christmas tree. Hopefully the nest will be cozy enough to coax growth.

As far as leaving Old Vices behind, I’m afraid I probably won’t take Sir Ben’s advice here. I’ve grown rather accustomed to my iniquities –such as they are. At my stage of life, my wild habits are confined to overindulgence in caffeine and an occasional friendly gossip session with Edna— quite minor peccadillos in the scheme of things I would imagine.