Rhubarb, rhubarb

I had to go next door to inspect the wall that our building shares.  While there the owner, Jean Michel, asked if I like rhubarb and did I know when to pick it.  It was green, rather than the usual reddish colour, but large and when I lightly tugged it, it came away from its stalk. 'Ah,' he said, 'it must be ready' and before I could protest I found myself with an enormous pile of rhubarb in my arms, enough to feed the whole of Saumur.  'My wife doesn't know how to cook it,' he said, so I felt obliged to offer to make them a rhubarb crumble, although I had enough rhubarb to bake fifty.

The next day I went to a picnic and one of my friends was telling a group of people that I was famous for killing  plants and warning them against giving me any.  Clearly they were all keen gardeners and gave me the same look that animal lovers cast upon me when I confess to having no pets.

So back to the rhubarb.  I made the crumble and carried it to my neighbours' house.  The next day these grateful recipients appeared at my door demanding to know how I made such a superb dish.  As I don't eat it myself I was at a loss to know what the secret could be but they were so happy they returned later in the day carrying - plants in pots!  I may be the queen of rhubarb crumble but how do I tell them that I am a mass murderer of plants?  And what do I do with the ton of rhubarb still littering my tiny kitchen?

I shall believe Johnson has gone when I see the removal van pulling up to the door of No. 10, and let's hope the new Prime Minister is not one of the cabinet that were too cowardly to stand up and speak the truth, and that includes Javid and Sunak who were wily enough to save their own skins by resigning early.