Root crops are always manured, and the kind and quantity of the manure used and the modes of applying it vary with the soil, climate and the success of the farmer’s acquisition of the shit he will dump on his fields this year. Nonetheless, whichever manner of manure he decides upon, one can go forth with a certainty that he will await a fine and clement day on which to spray the delicate concoction. He will, one can be assured, partake of his own sweet breaking of fast at an ungodly hour, aroused as he will be by the crow of the rooster and the first soft hues of a sun, rising with a promise of aforementioned fine and clear day. He will abandon his coffee mug and egg-smeared plate for his good wife, who will, once the pigs have been fed the scrapings of the luncheon preparation, set to at once to restore order to the farmhouse. She will not, unlike you, be fooled into the premise that a fine and clement day is a day for laundry. She will not, unlike you, gleefully seize upon this moment to wash the bedding; the curtains, or the leaning tower of football kit and bean-stained school uniforms, and she will not, at any cost, throw open her windows and declare this a day for spring-cleaning. You, of course, will as yet be blissfully unaware of the intentions of the farmer, for he has not yet begun. While you toss armfuls of sullied garments into the twintub, he will only then be hitching the slurry to the old Massey Ferguson. While you sing softly to the gentle humming of the spin cycle, he will be trundling down the lane to the orchard field. And while you swing that first laden basket upon your hip, and reach for the first of the pegs with which to fasten it to the line strung between your gnarled old apple tree and the garden fence, the farmer will swing open the gate and turn the tractor inwards. It is only at the moment that you have pegged that final sock, that gleaming pillow case, and sit upon your garden bench with a longed for cup of tea, prettily balanced in a chintz-flowered saucer, sit back, close your eyes, listen to the trill of the bluebirds, that he will unleash the fury of the shit upon the still, fresh, country air, and you will rush for the washing, dragging and dropping as you dash for safety, slam shut the door and race about your abode to slam shut each window. It is, to your misfortune, too late, as the mode of applying the manure to the root crops will pervade your home for the rest of the day.