On the one hand, I can appreciate the wholesomeness of tending to your own carrots. I fully approve of the thrifty savings that go with denying the supermarkets cash for their mass-produced lettuces. And teaching your kids about where veg comes from? Definite win there too.

But. 

It all rankles a bit. Mainly because I’m rubbish at growing my own veg myself. I admit I’m jealous of your radishes and the time you’ve spent on your perfectly formed peas. My last attempt at tomatoes ended with green bits of mushy slop all over my lawn. So do you have to wave your carrots in my face all over Facebook, rubbing it in?

That’s the thing. You know those people at work who smugly bring in full carrier bags of beautifully fresh veg they’ve tended with their own fair hand? Why do they do that, except to rub it in for the rest of us allotment-challenged lot? I greet someone with a big stick of home-grown rhubarb in the same way as someone who’s driving a Ferrari: show off.

This time of year is rife with them. You can’t blink without your Instagram feed being full of muddy courgettes and vibrant runner beans. Every kid waving a carrot is a further reminder of my failure as a mother to cultivate a successful vegetable plot in the garden. Your radishes are leaving me sobbing on the inside.

So, I see your carrots. And I raise you.

The biggest courgettes known to man.

But that’s not all. Oh no. There’s more where those came from.

BOOM! Apples from OUR OWN GARDEN. Oh yes. And you see that? That’s my child wheeling the fruits of her labour. A scene of domestic bliss from the garden.

My carrots are totally bigger than yours.

We’ll just choose to ignore the fact that the courgettes were grown in my parents’ veggie plot and the apples came from a tree that was planted long before we arrived, OK?

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It hasn’t always been this way. No, she used to love them. Like, really love them. She was attached to my nipples like a limpet to a rock, at least every two hours. She woke every few hours in the night and literally stuffed my boob in her mouth. She just couldn’t get enough of me. And I whinged. I bellyached and whined and moaned. If only she’d take a bottle, then we could have a night out, I’ll never be able to leave her!

But now she hasn’t the slightest bit of interest in them. Now that real food’s on the table, she’s happy for a quick munch from me first thing in the morning and last thing before bed. But that’s all. And I can’t help but feel a little rejected.

Don’t get me wrong, I am pleased. It means she’s actually worked out proper food can fill her up and is now (fingers crossed) sleeping longer at night. But I’ve always been a “grass is greener” sort of girl and I just can’t help thinking…oh, right, that’s it then.

I did try to reignite the flame, so to speak. I waggled my nipple around for a good ten minutes at one point but ended up poking her in the eye with it. I’ve now grown sick of the withering looks she gives me, as if to say don’t come near me with those things. So I’ve stopped trying.

I’m trying not to take it personally, but it’s hard. For the last eight months, she’s the only one who’s shown any interest in them. The (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine won’t go near them for fear of being squirted in the eye with milk. And they’ve never been the type of boobs to attract attention in the first place (apart from when I flashed to the entire village but that was a one-off). So I suppose the boobs were enjoying their time in the limelight while it lasted.

Oh well. At least Arthur still loves me. In fact, he loves me “more than peas and doors” apparently. There you go, I may have rubbish boobs but I’m still better than a small vegetable. Not brocolli though. Nothing beats the brocolli.

I'll take brocolli over boob any day...

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