…Dad has covered the fence with some gooey stuff.
He spilt some in the flowerbed.
All the plants died…
This unexpected botanical bereavement did, however, precipitate a pleasing development. By way of consolation for my dad, mum cooked us all what I describe in my diary, not entirely seriously, as “British beef”. Even better, it was followed by homemade trifle: still one of the nicest things to eat in the entire world.