Dear Marina
I took possession of my first allotment just two weeks ago. I planted some spring bulbs. But already the grey squirrels have eaten them. I knew they had something planned by the way they hung out of the trees laughing at me while I prepared the earth. Having spoken to other plotters I’ve discovered the blighters eat everything.
What can I do?
Phil, Manchester
Your situation is not dissimilar to that of the Rwandan gentleman whom I advised on a goat infestation. If unwanted beasties are dwindling food stocks the solution is simple: Eat the problem. That way they’re dead and you get fed. Result!
These nutty little destructive beasts are best dispatched in a slow cooking casserole. Follow recipes for rabbit, allowing a brace of the cute little specimens per adult.
Hold fire, though on a total and immediate cull. Instead of replacing your spring bulbs now’s the time to plant garlic. Once ingested by the rodents you can prepare your dish happy in the knowledge that every portion is conveniently pre-seasoned from the inside.
Dear Marina
Why would anyone serve goose for Christmas? It’s greasy and there’s not much meat. Is there some dark goose-related conspiracy that we should be told about?
Delia, Norwich
I think it’s symbolic, Delia. I’m loath to answer another food question, but this is important.
Serving goose seems to be part of a retreat into another era, a world of dark ages and yuletide simplicity, where snow falls snow on snow, bells ring merrily on high and we feel safe.
But times have changed. As the Queen’s estuary vowels croak from the TV, the crispy skin is pulled back and a knife plunged into the solid but giving flesh. Who could fail to get the message?
We will look from one to the other, from sovereign to goose. In that moment we will understand that old traditions and ingrained habits die hard. Looking to the future we may acknowledge: whatever you say lady, keep with the positive message. But as surely as a fox will get this carcass, collectively our global goose is cooked.
Dear Marina
I’m sure you prefer jolly letters, but I’m depressed. Don’t you just lie there in bed like I do wondering what’s the point? I need a positive slant to get me through Christmas and the New Year.
Depressed, W11
There is no point so stop wondering. Fill the time you save by taking a copy of Charlie Ottley’s Cautionary Verses and Ruthless Rhymes (Constable, 2006) to your local homeless shelter. People there need something to laugh at.
I have searched for a practical multi-cultural message appealing to all diversities at this most festive and sacred annual celebration of the re-birth of light. I found this lurking in Charlie Ottley’s poem The Sun: a Practical Guide.
I hope it helps put the solstice season into some sane sort of perspective.
“With its warmth the sunshine brings
The energy for living things,
So does it seem remotely odd
Some cultures treat it as a god?”
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