There I was, admiring my garden’s progress, when I spotted them — tiny, luscious red dots of temptation. My hand twitched with primal hunger. Just one little strawberry!

Then, like a horror movie jump-scare, my wife’s voice sliced through the air – don’t you dare touch those! For a glorious second, I assumed she was yelling at the kids. But no. Her laser-eyed glare was aimed squarely at me.

These strawberries and wild berries are destined for Christmas compote, because nothing says – festive spirit – like July’s harvest frozen into December’s dessert. The gooseberries are also verboten. Why? Unclear. Possibly they’re part of a secret holiday ritual.

I retreated, chastised. The berries live to see another day. But mark my words — next year, I’m planting more fruits — just for sneaky snacking.