Cutting Sprout in autumn.

As you know from reading this my correspondence with you, we at Cutting Sprout have been preparing for our harvest festival. Always a cause of great celebration in this little corner of the world where on the fringes of Cutting Sprout as I have doubtless told you before sweet little farms abound. I of course look forward to the Brussels sprout harvest, Moony woke me up only last weekend to ask me when the Gin bottle harvest is. Bless the poor lass I didn't know how to explain it to her so I told her to nip down to the kitchen and make herself some Gin and Cornflakes whilst I got a few more winks of sleep. But once she was gone I lay there and had a little think, what might people with a less discerning pallet than myself might bring along for the Vicars lovely harvest table all decorations for the church being provided by the lovely Mrs Pine-Coffin. I'm afraid they were rather messed with by some other pretentious and bossy villagers whose names I will not divulge here....But don't they think they're the cats pyjamas? I contributed a little wreath of Brussels sprouts and cornflowers. That I suspect caused ohh...Just a little pang of jealousy in the aforementioned villager ( oh okay a certain Mrs Barnstorm and her cronies).... Well as the nights got darker we brushed of our nice warm outfits (unless of course our name was Bagshott-Smyth, more from her later) and little village children went around singing "All things bright and beautiful" and "We plough the fields and scatter" until Moony remarked that they shouldn't encourage illegal land ploughing. I asked her how the little poppets might be doing this (I was at the time sowing an ear of corn suit for one of the local nursery class so that he could pop up on stage and deliver his line "I 'v grown"). Well she said "If they were ploughing those fields legally then they wouldn't have to scatter would they?" Again I didn't feel qualified to explain so I sent her across the road for "a cup of something or other" Her eyes lit up and she scurried across the road with a tumbler. I breathed a sigh of relief and got back to my sewing machine which stuck on automatic had put an unusual pattern into a tomato costume and I had to unpick some of the worst bits. I'll say its one of those things where something gets scorched into it by the greenhouse. Moony didn't come back for a while, she'd been very much enjoying Henny and Charlie's drinks cupboard. I really hadn't meant a cup of whisky but that is what she brought back. Never Mind. We pottered along to the service on Sunday, me with a basket of garden produce and Moony with a tin of Jolly Green Giant sweetcorn which she insisted was harvest produce, just as she had the year before with a pack of sage and onion flavoured gravy. I try to say as little as possible on these occasions. It was charming, and my costumes turned out to be "rather sweet in a surreal way" as the vicar put it. And only a little misshapen. When we left the church we found little notes attached to the trees leading us to the woods, we looked at each other intrigued and then as one we followed the arrows.

Guess what we found yes Mrs Bagshott-Smyth and her women's group, a lot of very alcoholic punch and some wooden toad stools large enough to sit on. The punch helped I must say to enable us to better interpret Mrs Bagshott-Smyths "Dance of the Autumn sprites welcoming the Winter". I must say that they were graceful, bizarre and in the spirit of cutting sprout totally un-put off by the start of an early frost. But I snuck of home before anyone could ask my opinion. Call me a diplomat my dears, Henny did when she caught up with me. The two of us made our way home via every conker in the woods (Henny cant help herself picking them up and her pockets were bulging.) We talked about our families as we walked and we hummed and I imagine that the unknowing observer might have mistaken us for darling Pooh and Piglet.