A letter to Parsley from the bed of birthday boy Oregano.
Dear Parsley I think your idea to plant a couple of Christmas trees on the allotment is totally wicked. You know I love digging holes and getting rid of cooch grass and brambles, and maybe the odd can of 1664 left by Ian. I admit I could always do with a better belt because whenever I'm digging/pigging/forking/raking my pants keep slipping down. Short of doing a Simon Cowell and having my 1990s jeans ride up to my chin, the slide prone jeans are here to stay. It's also great you call me Howard from Take That but it's part of the ongoing banter that keeps me on my toes and acts as the glue that keeps a good UNIT together. And what a unit we have, what with NINE members: yourself, myself, Cakeatonne, Weasel, Winks, Eric, Salt-n-Pepa and Spinderella. We'll be a match for the So Solid Crew (I hear they now have 500 soldiers in their clan).
But I digress. Planting the tree was good fun. You learn something every day, like which way to face the tree so it gets more sun ('It's not bushy enough on that side you dork, turn it around'). This squat little bugger had my pythons singing an ancient poem of toil; our ancestor units were nodding their heads in agreement. Using some dung to fertilise the roots, mixed in with that good old soil we have may see this little nipper turn into a handsome young thing come December, I have no doubt. You know better than me, I'm just a dork with a nest for hair - you have an amazing daughter who stares at trees (blatant early teaching going on here) from her pram, whilst you tell me what to do. Never stop.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinks (that's thanks for those of you not in the know). Oreg-Howar-dork-unit.