You tell yourself that this year you won’t sow either too early, or too much. Especially tomatoes. You wait, and you wait, and you wait.
You tell yourself it must be warm enough now for tomatoes to germinate in your (unheated) greenhouse, and you carefully sow just the right number of seeds.
You give in and bring the trays of pots (because you couldn’t resist sowing jut a few extras, as insurance) into the kitchen to sit on the windowsill. This is despite vowing never to grow things on the windowsill again because it makes them leggy and attracts irritating little flies.
You wait, again.
Nothings grows except a few funny little mushrooms (was the compost too damp?) so you finally crack and show a whole lot more seeds in, several to a pot.
At which point all hell breaks loose and every single one of them germinates and you take them back out to the greenhouse because they are threatening to take over the kitchen and you can’t stand the flies or the mushrooms any longer and one of the pots has eight plants in it, for goodness’ sake.
When you can’t ignore them any more you pot them on so that each has its own roomy pot and fresh compost.
At which point you realise that you now have 26 tomato plants, a 6×4 foot greenhouse (which is already full), a tiny garden (also full) and a son who only sucks the juice out of tomatoes and doesn’t actually eat the things.
Or does this only happen to me?