Friday 25th April 1808

Dear Diary,
Today has been most productive. Whilst strolling in the garden I encountered Ned, sat upon the bench outside his shed, contemplating the ground in front of him and swinging a small yet weighty sack between his open legs. I enquired as to what his intentions were and he offered up the dangling sack for my perusal.
"Can you guess?" he teased.
Through it's wrinkled covering I could feel small, hard yet generally egg shaped objects rolling around between my hesitant fingers.
"Do you fancy some Pentland Javelin?" he winked. Indeed I did! I removed my frock coat and rolled up my sleeves.
I began to dig some of the furrows with him but then needed to return indoors for an important task which I cannot recall at this particular moment. When I returned he was stripped to the waist and leaning on his shovel and all the furrows were dug. How magnificent is the male form when glistening in the sunlight. It was most distracting but we had to get on. He lined the furrows with compost, which did nothing for my olfactory organs, whilst I delicately placed the seed potatoes at regular intervals along them; the furrows, not my olfactory organs. Finally we covered them over and stood to admire our handywork. Why people talk of 'greenfingers' is beyond me? 'Brownfingers' is a far more accurate term!