Pirates and potatoes

Making the most of the positively Caribbean weather in Kent today, we were at the allotment by 8 this morning and coats off by ten past. Andy set to, digging trenches to plant the first early potatoes that had reached Triffid-like proportions whilst chitting in Heather's bedroom, and I disappeared up the other end of the plot to tackle ONCE AGAIN the huge mass of grape hyacinths that seem to want to take over the site every March. For the last 2 years I've been trying to get rid of the darn things but still they come back, dividing and spreading like bizarre little onions.

At one point early in the proceedings, Andy appeared up my end (oo-er missus!) to put some stuff in our newly located compost bins.

'Yeek!' Andy squealed, which I always find an odd reaction from him considering he spends a lot of his working life in situations involving poo, wee, pus, blood, guts and other unsavoury substances. Thus, I reason, the contents of a compost bin should be child's play for him.
'What's up?' I ask, pausing in my grape hyacinth onslaught.
'There's a dead rat in the compost bin,' he said and sure enough there is, on its side, very big and very dead.
'Shall we take it home and have it for lunch with a side serving of the many snails that are hibernating on the side of the compost bin?' I ask. (Hugh F-W cooked garden snails in his programme 'A Cook on the Wild Side.' The addition of rat was my idea.)
'Don't be disgusting,' says Andy.

As I ponder the dead rat and listen to Andy saying how nice it was that the rat could go somewhere warm, clean and quiet to breathe its last moments, I notice that next door's allotment, (belonging to 'plant-trees-in-an-inconsiderate-manner-string-girl. Remember?) has acquired a small flag pole on which is flying a Jolly Roger skull and crossbones. An icy chill runs through my bones.

'It's a warning,' I say, rooted to the spot with fear.
'What is?' says Andy.
'The rat. Look,' and I point to the flag.
'Meaning?' says Andy. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking, here she goes again.
'We have incurred the wrath of string girl,' I hiss. 'By moving the compost bins. It's a warning that we'd better watch our step. Or else. It's a coded message - PI-RATS!'
'No it isn't,' sighs Andy.
'Well,' I say. 'Just you wait. I bet we find a horse's head in there next time.'
Andy disappears back down his end, muttering something about sedatives and over-excitable imaginations.

When I next look up, Andy is sitting in a deck chair, watching me dig. The potatoes are planted and he's even got ahead digging a couple of trenches for the second earlies which will be ready plant in a week or two.

When I look again, Andy is tidying up the blackberry trellis, cutting back the old brambles and weaving the new shoots, sprouting with tiny green leaves into the shape of a giant heart. Which was nice.

Then I had a bit of a dig of the overgrown area recently revealed by the relocation of the compost bins. It's not as bad as it looks. We are still hesitating about whether to get a polytunnel but now I have tested the site and seen we could dig deep enough trenches to bury the edges of the polythene, I feel happier to make the purchase. Yesterday, I bought a tomato greenhouse from Wilkos (basically a green plastic tubing frame with a flimsy plastic cover. Andy liked it though. He stood inside and said how warm it was. And then I made him come out because he was starting to look like some kind of transparent Dalek.) It cost £9.99 and will house three tomato plants easily. But a polytunnel would be better.

After three hours, we head off home. It has been a good morning. Despite the Pi-Rat.

The Interloper

When Denise and Andy announced their chicken keeping intentions, people said either one of two things. 'They'll get massacred by foxes' was one 'you'll get up one morning and find them lying dead in the garden with their heads ripped off.' 'You'll get a plague of rats' was the other, 'if Britain descends into another plague ridden hell, we'll be knocking on your door with the bill for the antibiotics, make no mistake.' Denise and Andy know a lot of doom mongers.

However, whilst gazing dreamily from the kitchen window yesterday morning, Denise thinks she sees a squirrel by the compost bin, nibbling its nuts. 'Aahh, look at the cute squirrel nibbling its nuts,' she says. 'I love squirrels. They are soooooo cute!' But then the icy hand of doom grips her heart and gives it a squeeze. 'That might not be a squirrel,' the icy hand of doom says (okay, hands don't generally talk; Thing in the Adams Family is my case in point - very much a mime artist, but bear with me) 'it might be a RAT!'

Denise tries hard not to run around the kitchen shrieking 'Vermin! Vermin!' at the top of her voice. Instead, she rushes outside armed with a bottle of Morning Fresh and a rubber glove (they were the first things to come to hand) shrieking 'Vermin! Vermin!'. 'What's up with her?' askes Mrs Bennett, pausing in her vicious savaging of a slug. 'I think she may have just seen Bernard,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Aah,' says Mrs Bennett. 'And please don't talk with your beak full,' reprimands Mrs Miggins.

As Denise runs screaming towards the compost bin, the so-called 'squirrel' turns and legs it up the garden, revealing in its wake not a cute fluffy tail that looks like a question mark but a thick, furless monstrosity that looks like a worm on steroids wearing a condom.

Reporting the sighting to Andy that evening, Denise clings to the hope that the interloper might be a squirrel with a very thin tail that is suffering from alopecia. But Andy, being a vet and thus VERY WISE about these things, diagnoses species Rattus Rattus (that's one rat, not two).

The evening is spent trawling the DIY stores for a rat trap. Denise and Andy really know how to enjoy themselves.

'It's only Bernard,' sighs Mrs Bennett, as she and Mrs Miggins settle for an evening in front of the telly. 'I know,' agrees Mrs Miggins, taking up the antimacassar she is crocheting, 'but you do have to admit, he isn't a great house guest. Such a temper when he loses at Scrabble.'Quite,' says Mrs Bennett.