Seeds and custard slices.

Yesterday I cycled many miles to a garden centre to buy seeds (including wildflower seeds that said 'Sprinkle over poor soil, vaguely rake to see that they're sort of covered, don't fertilise, don't do anything else, laziness is your friend and effort your mortal enemy', or words to that effect - my sort of seed) and also three begonia bulbs. I like a spot of purposeful cycling. I like unpurposeful cycling as well, but there's something particularly pleasing about performing a distant errant under your own steam. It was a pleasant cycle, and I managed not to run over any of the loose dogs that were so desperate to fling themselves under my front wheel, and I traversed a level crossing without incident, though I'm not a fan of the level crossing, and I didn't get bitten by the unfriendly horse I attempted to greet, and I still need to buy a rear mudguard.

There was a cafe at the garden centre and before leaving I procured myself a coffee and a custard slice, the meal of choice for the gardening cyclist. My custard slice arrived and then half a minute later another custard slice arrived for the man sitting sitting opposite me. Our eyes met and we shared the comradely glance of the mutual custard slice eater. It would've felt unfriendly to let the coincidence pass unmarked. Then we both rose and went to the cutlery trays to procure knives and forks and napkins. We shared a knowing smile that said 'We know too well the difficult ways of the custard slice', and it was a very special moment.

Then we ate our custard slices in total isolation without raising our eyes from our plates, because you don't want to be under observation when you're eating a custard slice. It's a thing mutual custard slices eaters understand.