The poor man’s apothecary

The poor man’s apothecary

I recently moved into a new house and inherited my very own little garden. You could probably swing a cat around in it, but after a few dizzying revolutions – smashing it repeatedly against the fence, shed and patio door – it would be bit like swinging a porridge-filled sock, with its insides spilling from a nasty tear after snagging on a nail. Given that I would have to borrow a neighbour’s cat for such an exercise, it didn’t feel like the best way to introduce myself to the neighbourhood.

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