About this journal
This is a small notebook kept in public. A balcony with more pots than sense, a kettle that whistles too loudly, and a habit of writing things down before they are forgotten.
There is no schedule. Entries appear when something is worth remembering — a soil mix that finally worked, a morning that went better without a screen in it. Nothing here is advice; it is a record.
The name comes from the oak at the end of the street, which drops its leaves onto the balcony every October whether invited or not.
Comments
There are none, deliberately. If something here is useful or wrong, that is a fine reason to write in a notebook of your own.