Doing It Different

So, all the gardening books say you can't transplant swede seedlings. You sow the seed in situ, and as the seedlings come up, you thin them out to let the remaining ones have more space. You CANNOT, say the books, replant the thinnings. DO NOT even have a go. Your plan will FAIL!

Well, a few weeks ago, as we were weeding our new allotment and getting behind with any seed sowing because of it, a fellow allotmenteer wandered across to our plot and said, 'Here are some swede seedlings. Pop 'em in and see what happens.'

So I popped 'em into a patch of weed free ground, and on inspection the next day they all appeared shrivelled, dried up,dead. (Much like my feet after over-exposure to the sun after several months besocked). But I watered them anyway (the swede thinnings, not my feet), being the eternal optimist. And they perked up. And the leaves grew and prospered. And this morning, I noted there are swedes the size of a grapefruit pushing their way through the surface of the earth! Ha! In your face, gardening experts!

Which just goes to show that sometimes it is best to ignore the experts and just do what you fancy to do regardless.

And it is just as well we have adopted this philosophy at the allotment this year because we have also chosen to ignore the whole crop rotation malarkey. Everything is having to rub along with its neighbour according to the New Gardening Rules of Andy and Denise, which is basically 'There's a space - in you go, young aubergine me lad,' and 'Shall we put the tomatoes next to the carrots and fill the gaps with parsnips and courgettes? Yes, let's!' We are such renegades!

Also, I ignored the Laws of Economy this morning, and the fact the bank balance is a little on the thin side, and marched into a shop and picked up a variety of note books, sketch pads, pastels, charcoals and watercolours, because I am going to fiddle about with a spot of art. Pure whim! I am not a painter unless it is walls and ceilings, and I am not a drawer... a drawer? That doesn't look right. Is that what you call someone who draws? Or is it merely a receptacle for pants 'n' socks? I digress...

...what I mean is that although I knit and sew and bake and doodle pictures of clouds, rainbows and spiders when I am on the phone on hold to some interminable utility company listening to plinky plonky  musak, I have not wielded a paintbrush nor pastel since I was a teenager. But Andy and I received a generous monetary gift a week ago, with the instruction to treat ourselves. So we have! To arty stuff! And thank you, generous bequester...you know who you are! (Well, I hope you do because if you don't it could well mean another marble has hit the carpet and rolled behind the sofa! x)

Of course, Andy is the real artist. He is in the garden at this very moment, easel up, brush out, and a likeness of Primrose Hen appearing on his sheet of paper. I would lean out of the upstairs window next to where I am sat and take a photo of The Artist At Work, but we all know what happened last time I 

leant from a window.

And so, dear Malarkey Guest, I am going to delve into my bag of painterly stuff and have an afternoon of arty tiddling about.

And I hope, wherever you are, you are doing your own thing in your own way, and having a jolly good tiddle too!