Yes! We have no potatoes

General chit chat over the weekend about use of the allotment and the back garden has resulted in the decision not to grow potatoes this year. Well, maybe just a row of new potatoes, as there is nothing nicer than freshly dug, homegrown, organic new potato lightly boiled with mint and covered in butter.

But we have decided that we are going to concentrate this year on growing stuff that is expensive to buy. Like aubergines, beans, salady doo-dah, chard, spinach etc. And definitely more squash, because vegetarians can never have enough squasheseses....squashum....squashi...
squish? Also, we are going to solve the issue of weeds around the polytunnel by surrounding the polytunnel with paving slabs (hopefully courtsey of Freecycle) and then cover the paving slabs with pots of herbs and flowers!

And the boundary fence of Cluckinghen Palace has been taken down, so the chickens are now free to ramble all over the shop. The PLAN is that instead of keeping the chickens away from the growing areas, we are going to keep the growing areas away from the chickens, if you get my drift. Which means planting things that the chickens won't eat e.g nut trees (I am very keen on having a couple of nut trees), or planting stuff that the chickens will eat but will be cunningly enclosed within a protective fence which means the chickens will be able to see the plants but they won't be able to reach them with their pecky little beaks; this will no doubt cause them to spend the entire summer with their pecky little beaks pressed up against the protective fence, dribbling after the lush produce that they can't reach.

'We'll only be round your place more often for hobnobs,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Fine by me,' I say. 'As long as you keep off my fancy lettuce.'

We're also on the verge of buying a fruit cage and extending the fruit growing area at the allotment. There are a lot of birdies up the allotment and we lose a fair percentage of fruit to them; a cage seems a good idea. Plus we like building stuff. Ah, such fond memories of putting up that polytunnel two years ago which is still standing tall and proud despite several hefty falls of snow and us flailing around inside with various hoes, rakes and spades. We have tried to erect make-do-and-mend protection for the fruit, but it never works very well, and access is always a trial. A nice, solid, upright, non-floppy cage is just the ticket. One that's tall enough to stand up in. With a door. That'll keep out a pigeon. Or an eagle.

So the back garden looks like Steptoes junk yard at the moment. But in my mind's eye it looks like a little cottage garden, all cute beds, arches trailing with honeysuckle, hops smothering the fence, nuts trees making a tiny woodland area, pots and troughs of flowers and herbs, with three hens pottering around keeping it all slug free.

'Ha! Like that's going to happen,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might,' I say.

What is this 'Tidy Up'?

Procrastination often wants to be my friend, so in order to 'get things done' I need to tell myself the previous day what I am DEFINITELY going to do tomorrow, then I find when I wake up I am ready to go and get on with it.

Yesterday, I said to Me, 'Tomorrow, you are going to clean out the greenhouse.'
'Oh I am?' Me said.
'You are,' I said. 'It looks a complete tip and you need to make space for the sweet peas and strawberry runners.'
'Can't I just kick everything to one side and balance the sweet peas and strawberry runners precariously on whatever ensuing surface looks like it might be able take the strain?' said Me.
'No,' I said. 'And you also need to clean out the chickens, and I mean with hot soap and water, and cut back the buddleia, and take down the runner beans.'

Me tutted a bit, but I felt I had the upper hand in this discussion, so went to sleep.

This morning, I was up and at 'em as soon as the decorators arrived just before 8.30. The weather promised rain in the afternoon so I was on a mission. But I did it; despite the humungous spiders in the greenhouse, I cleaned it all out and planted some sweetpeas, and the strawberry runners I brought back from the allotment yesterday. I also put in some chives, for good measure.

Then, I gave Cluckinghen Palace a jolly good clean although I did make the mistake of performing a full dismantle and then found I couldn't push the bottom bar back in place without disappearing head down between the fence and whatever shrub it is that has gained new life and new growth since the removal of the eucalyptus tree. So the top of the pod is currently in a state of 'balance' on the base and the bottom bar will be replaced firmly as soon as someone taller than me comes along i.e Andy.

I've trimmed back the buddleia. I've swept the patio. I have weeded and cleared various corners. I tried to mow the law but the mower wouldn't work so had to give up on that. I took down the runner beans and can now see out of the kitchen window again. The best bit was when I stood in the greenhouse with a cuppa for a while and watched the bees doing a sterling job of fending off a couple of persistent wasps. I thought fondly of all the baby bees waiting to be born in 12 days' time.

In between times I popped in and out of the house to make tea for the decorators (who say they will hopefully be done on Wednesday), reduce the pile of papers waiting to be shredded, do a spot of ironing and now, because the promised rain has arrived, I am going to make a cake and then do some writing.

Procrastination has not been my friend today. Me has done as she was told!

Free Cycle Re-Cycle

Have you ever used Free-Cycle? It's amazing! You post what you don't want onto a website, and if someone else wants it, then all they have to do is come and fetch it. No money changes hands, but warm glowy feelings are experienced because you have been frugal and at one with the recycling universe. Less than two days ago, Andy posted the old sofa and an old bike on the Free-Cycle website, and by 8.45 this morning, both of them had been whisked away to new lives, where they will no doubt be made more use of than chez the Manor.

This made Andy feel better about the possibility of taking something from Free-Cycle for ourselves. We are currently on the look-out for some old paving slabs with which to surround the polytunnel. I have grand ideas about filling the paved area up with a variety of pots all stuffed with herbs. But I have to admit that my main raison d'etre is to squish the weeds that really like growing around the polytunnel edges, probably because they love the huge amount of horse poo we dug in earlier in the season.

'It doesn't seem right taking something without donating something in the first place,' said Andy, 'but now we've donated two items, I feel we can have something back,' and because I believe in karma, I agreed with him.

And, of course, it's great to be re-cycling, rather than hoiking stuff down the council tip, which is where the sofa and the bike would have ended their days had they not been snapped up so eagerly-beaverly.

The only danger is that once you enter the world of free-cycling, you start thinking you could use things that you wouldn't have previously given a second glance. It's a bit like e-bay. I had an e-bay evening last night, after several e-bay free months, mostly to look for extra bits of beekeeping equipment. This is because I am convinced I'm going to open our hive for its first inspection this weekend and find umpty-numty queen cells, a potential swarm or two and will need to take evasive action in re-homing the gazzillions of bees that are BOUND to have developed in the last 7 days.

And whilst I was looking for extra supers and other such malarkey, I found a skep.
'Oooh,' I thought. 'That'll be handy for collecting a swarm.'

And then I had a quick look at pretty china plates with flowers on them, novelty egg cups, pictures of bees, pictures of poppies, Pimms jugs (glass only - none to be had), and books in general.

You'll be glad to know my hard-earned cash stayed in my bank account.

'Can you put livestock on Free-Cycle?' asked Mrs Miggins. 'Only I'd like to Free-Cycle Mrs Slocombe.'
'I'm not sure,' I said. 'But I am sure that however annoying you find Mrs S, she is staying put, because I find her wild-eyed lunacy strangely entertaining.'
'But she's had all my bottom fluffage again,' moaned Mrs M.
'Maybe it would help if you didn't sit on her head at night,' I said, having found both Miggo and Pumphrey nesting on top of Mrs Slocombe when I closed up the Penthouse suite yesterday evening. They may have been trying to suffocate her, I don't know for certain, but I am certain I could some feather munching going on.

Well, after a morning sorting out the gardens here at the Manor, (where I saw the Malarkey bees scooting about amongst the bee plant flowers I put in last year - hurrah!) I'm going to sofa slump this afternoon and refresh my memory about how to conduct a hive inspection, in preparation for this weekend. Andy's bee-suit still hasn't arrived so I'll be the lone bee-keeper, with Andy braced on the sidelines with Piriton and camcorder.

Bank Holiday Malarkey

I am glad it is a bank holiday today, because no way was I going to work when I woke this morning. I had far more important things to do than educate the young, who, quite frankly, often don't realise how lucky they are to have a free education.

For a start, Andy and I had to get the back garden ready for Bee-Hive Number One (the hive will be given a witty and topical name once I can think of one). The back garden has been looking a right old tip, so some heavy duty tidying was called for, so that once our hive is sited we won't do any unnecessary bee enraging by having to move it once the colony is settled. Also, I had a pile of summer bulbs to put in - gladioli and irises. The chickens came and helped dig the bulb bed; Mrs Miggins indulging in the sport of extreme digging i.e clambering atop the fork for prime worm viewing position.

It's surprising what can be achieved in three hours. The weather threatened to spoil our fun a couple of times, but we held out and managed to create the illusion of more space than we've actually got by the time lunch started calling.

'It looks okay now, doesn't it?' said Andy, standing back to admire our handy work.
'Indeed,' I agreed. 'But now I am pooped so am going inside for a Bank Holiday afternoon slump.'

And so far this afternoon I have caught up with some letter writing, nearly finished another book by my new favourite writer, Marina Lewycka, read a bit more about bees, and drawn a plan of how I imagine our dream-house-and-garden-smallholding-combo to look. I have tidied out my knicker drawer, and am about to continue sewing the picture I started when Kayleigh was born which is for her nursery and if I carry on at the rate I am going with it so far, she'll be able to hang it on her wall when she is about 13 years old and drooling over some vacuous, floppy-haired boy-band.

And then I am going to scour my cookery books for some good vegetarian recipes that in no way, shape or form involve tofu. Have you ever eaten tofu? Can I suggest you don't? You might just as well eat slivers of bath sponge dipped in a soapy water solution. Yuk! I believe tofu is derived from soya bean curd, and to be honest, the words 'soya' and 'curd' in the same sentence should be enough to put anyone off trying this poor excuse for a meat substitute. It's supposed to be tasteless and will therefore take on the flavour of whatever else you soak it in or cook it with. Well, all I can say is that the stuff we had last night in our Chinese takeway must have been soaked in molten playdough. Double yuk!

And this evening I am off out with Mrs Pumphrey to do some last minute canvassing before the election on Thursday. She wants to kiss some babies and I have to be on hand with the beak muffler. The latest polls suggest she is in with a good chance of becoming Prime Minister, thank goodness, because she can't do any more harm than the current shower, can she?

Although she did call Tango Pete a fascist gigolo the other day. And abusing your electorate is never a good idea. Is it, Gordon?

Come Into The Garden Maud

Well, it was about time I got into the garden. It's been a long, wet, snowy winter, and the garden (both front and back) is on the point of neglect.

'Where are we going?' asked Andy, suspicious that I was up with the lark this morning, singing and looking decidedly perky.
'Garden centre,' I said. 'I am spending the day in the garden and I need stuff.'
'I hurt my back at work yesterday,' said Andy.
'Not good enough,' I said. 'We are going to the garden centre.'

So off we hopped, to the garden centre where Number One son Chris works, so I could avail myself of his staff discount.
And we returned with a pair of heavy duty secateurs, some long-cuffed leather gardening gloves, a spade, a wheelbarrow, some knee pads (pink, v. nice) and two lovely blue pots.

Number One on the list of things to do was to empty and move the compost bin from Cluckinghen Palace. I had been having nightmares about finding nests of rats in said bin, having seen a furry visitor run away from it a couple of weeks ago and disappear under the fence to next door. Immediately, I'd been out and laced the rat traps with fresh bait, but I wasn't going to rest until the bin was emptied and moved.

Andy set about moving the bin. He was very brave - he didn't even tuck his trousers into his socks. I wasn't so brave. I had everything tucked into my wellies. No rat was disappearing up my drain-pipe, no sirree. Luring the hens into the North Wing by using copious amounts of grapes, Andy was able to close the double gate that divides the North Wing from the South Wing, whip the bin into the air and let the contents (rat-filled or otherwise) spill over the ground. Result? Lovely compost - no rats!

The compost was moved to the raised bed you may remember the hens built last year for the purpose of salad growing; this year it is going to become 'The Asparagus Bed.'
'I like asparagus,' said Mrs Miggins.
'You've never tried it,' I said.
'Isn't it the stuff that makes your wee turn purple?' said Miggins
'That's beetroot,' I said.
'Oh,' said Mrs Miggins. 'But I don't like beetroot.'
'Quite,' I said.

Whilst the compost was being shifted by a brave Andy-with-an-achey-back using the new wheelbarrow, I set about trying to murder the buddleia with the new secateurs. I tried murdering the buddleia last year but despite my vicious pruning, it sprung back even bushier and full of flower than before. I had studied the buddleia pruning guide in this month's Gardeners' World magazine, but decided my way was the best way so disregarded any advice to 'look for new buds' and hacked away regardless.

The result was that a lot more light appeared in the garden.

And there will be even more light in a couple of months' time, because we have decided the eucalyptus tree must go. It's about 25 feet tall now, and dominating the skyline. And heaving up our small scrap of lawn with its roots. A call to the tree surgeon is in order, methinks.

In the front garden, I applied a similar pruning regime to the rose bushes, and oops, accidentally tugged the cordeline shrub a little too hard and pulled it from the ground.
'You've never liked that shrub, have you?' said Andy.
'No,' I said. 'But as it came out of the ground so easily, it was probably nearly dead anyway.'

All in all, a good gardening day was had. The asparagus bed is ready to receive the asparagus. The empty compost bin is ready to receive a new supply of compostable material. There are a couple of potential spaces available to receive a bee hive. The space vacated by the compost bin is available to receive Andy's next building project of a new conservatory for the hens for extra shelter during the rain. (Or, if Mrs Slocombe has her way, a purpose built rat hotel.)

And the chives, mint and clematis are starting to sprout in their pots, the bluebells are nosing up in the front borders, and there are little tiny leaves appearing on the rose bushes.

Spring is here. At last.

Just one Courgetto!

Following the success of the Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Ducklings, here is...

'The Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Courgettes (Growing, picking and eating)'

1) Never, EVER think you can't have too many courgettes, Trust me, you can. If there are two of you in your household, then two plants will provide ample courgettage for the year. If there are four of you in your household, two plants will still provide ample courgettage for the year.

2) Courgette seeds have excellent hearing and recalcitrant characters. There are usual six seeds in a packet. The seeds will hear you muttering about how many bloomin' courgettes you had last year because all six seeds germinated and you didn't have the heart to chuck out the excess plants. Courgette seeds will think, 'Right, we'll teach her a lesson this year,' and they will all refuse to germinate.

3) Go and purchase a second packet of seeds. Or, if you're lucky, you'll get a free packet with your gardening magazine. This time, keep schtumm whilst planting seeds. If you must speak, say things like, 'Gosh, we didn't have nearly as many courgettes last year as we wanted. You can never have too many courgettes you know.' This, of course, is a double bluff. By process of natural selection the law says that two seeds will be intelligent and realise the double bluff and not germinate because 'you ain't catching us out that easily,' two will be of average intelligence and not know what to do so will miss critical germination point by sitting on the fence, and two will be too stupid to catch onto the cunning-as-a-weasel game you are playing and will germinate. Thus, you have your two plants.

4) Immediately upon planting out your courgette seedlings into the desired growing positions, they will appear to die. DO NOT BE FOOLED. Wilting is a plant's equivalent of a teenager having their duvet whipped from them at 11.30 in the morning by an irate mother and a bucket of cold water dumped on their heads. Ignore any plaintive crying, dowse liberally with water, pat the earth down tightly and say 'There, there, you'll feel better in the morning,' and then walk smartly away. Within twenty-four hours, your plants will have grown eighteen inches.

5) As soon as the first tiny, weeny, baby courgette appears - PICK IT! No, gone on, pick it. It maybe the size of a tooth pick now but if you leave it until the weekend it'll be the size of an inner tube. And so will its eleven mates.

6) It is important that courgettes are picked regularly. Pick and eat, pick and eat, pick and eat. That will be your mantra for the next four months. DO NOT entertain going away on holiday. DO NOT think, 'Oh, I picked them yesterday, they'll be okay to leave for a day or two.' And DO NOT, under ANY circumstance be tempted to feed plants with any form of fertiliser. I have only one word to say to you regarding giving a courgette plant a helping hand and that is 'TRIFFID.'

7) As your plants expand you will need to go underneath them occasionally to have a jolly good clear out. No weeds will grow near your courgettes - weeds, like plants, need water and sun in order to grow, and a courgette plant soon puts a stop to that kind of malarkey. But you will need to clear away old dead leaves. This is to keep air flowing around the centre of the plant in an attempt to prevent, or at least minimise, the occurence of powdery mildew. Don't be fooled by the soft fresh growth of new courgette leaf occuring atop your plants. The old leaves below are rough, scratchy and unpleasant on the skin (a bit like that jumper your Auntie Hilda knitted for you when you five). Wear industrial strength rubber gloves and an overcoat for the task and you should escape unscathed and skin intact.

8) Courgette plants are incredibly resilient. Try this experiment. Aim a flame thrower at a courgette plant for twenty seconds. You might THINK you have destroyed the plant, but when you return the next day, there will be courgettes for tea, you mark my words.

9) You will have nightmares about courgettes. There is nothing you can do about this. Even if you don't grow any courgettes this year, you'll still have nightmares about the ones you grew last year. It'll take years of therapy to expunge the memory that is 'courgette.'

10) You will become adept and cunning in your use of courgettes. Don't restrict yourself to eating them. They can be made into wine. They make excellent short-range missiles for knocking small boys off your garden wall. You can stand on the larger ones and peer over fences to see what the neighbours are up to. Line them up to form a boundary fence between you and your allotment neighbour thus saving on string. Carve them into amusing ornaments for your front garden. 'Gnome on a Courgette' is a good one to start with.

And finally...

11) DO NOT feed them to your chickens. A) they don't like courgettes and B) if they do accidentally try some, they will almost certainly ingest the seeds which will travel through the chicken's digestive system and reappear in a nice dollop of highly nutritious chicken poop, to be buried amidst much scratching and digging and reappear next summer as a fully-fledged, raring to go courgette plant. And if you listen very carefully, you'll probably hear it laughing.

The Great Bank Holiday Polytunnel Project Day 2

With drill recharged and the additional equipment of a step-ladder to avoid a repeat of yesterday's inelegant dangling off the top rail and swearing a lot as he tried to attach important screws, Andy and I set off for the allotment for Day 2 of the polytunnel experience. At the allotment, yesterday's handiwork stood tall, proud and hoopy like a tall, proud, hoopy thing.

As Andy immersed himself in a pile of power tools and bits of wood and metal, I continued my weeding campaign from yesterday. I am pleased to report we are almost weed free and whatever weeds that pop up for the rest of the growing season can now be dealt with by a bit of swift hoeing. I also made two net cages for the many cauliflower seedlings ('We LOVE cauliflower, don't we Andy?' 'Mm-mmmmm,' says Andy) and cabbage seedlings that needed planting out, and sowed some seeds straight into the ground - red beetroot, golden beetroot, carrots and spring onions. I stood and admired the flowers on the blackberry bush and strawberry plants and whilst I was upside-down and head long 'neath the gooseberry bushes weeding out some buttercups, I noticed some tiny, weeny gooseberries starting to swell.

We both agree the allotment is looking pretty darn good at the moment!

Today I was called upon to hold the spirit level against the door frames and to draw lines on the door frames where the wood needed cutting as Andy stood, arms aloft, holding up the door frames. I resisted the urge to tickle him until the very last moment when naughtiness got the better of me. In I went for the tickle. Andy, alarmed, stepped back and trampled my raspberries. 'Mind the raspberries!' I shrieked. 'Mind my armpits,' shrieked back Andy. Touche!

My opinion was also required vis a vis the location of the diagonal brace bars.

'They don't look right, sitting at that angle,' said Andy, frowning 'neath his big floppy hat.
'What angle?' I said, because I couldn't see anything on account of the fact my even bigger floppy hat was rammed very tightly onto my head because of the wind. (Atmospheric, not personal.)

So we wiggled and jiggled the diagonal brace bars, slid them up and down a bit, turned them upside-down even but there was only one way they were going to fit as per the instructions, and that was the way Polytunnel Maestro Andy had fitted them.

A nice old chappie from the lottie across the way and along a bit mooched over and enquired after our polytunnel e.g where we got it, how much it cost, the pros and cons etc. He admired it and declared it a 'wonderful thing,' and then wandered off with the kind of wander that suggested he might very well be getting one himself.

And he was right, that nice old chappie. Our polytunnel is a wonderful thing. It adds gravitas and grace to our plot. It confirms that we are SERIOUS about growing our own organic food. That we have moved up a step on the self-sufficiency ladder. Walking up to unlock the main gate to let Andy drive through as we finished our allotment stint today (another 5 hours!), I found myself very much in mind to make a jazzy number '87' to add to identity our plot.

And here is another picture so you can see progress for today.

The polytunnel cometh and Denise and Andy runneth...

On Monday, I was fired up and ready to phone the polytunnel company and ask, all casual-like, that as it's been 4 weeks since I placed my polytunnel order with them and 4 weeks since they took the money from my credit card, WHEN WERE THEY GOING TO DELIVER THE B****Y THING BECAUSE THE TOMATOES/AUBERGINES/PEPPERS ARE TURNING INTO GREENHOUSE TRIFFIDS???? However, they beat me to it and called immediately after breakfast to say my order had been dispatched and would arrive on Wednesday.

'Morning or afternoon?' I enquired. The office lady didn't know but said if I wanted to call back on Wednesday morning they would be in a better position to tell me. What position would that be, I wondered. Organised??

Anyhow, it transpired the question was irrelevant because the polytunnel arrived yesterday. A very small delivery man with a single front tooth appeared at lunchtime in a very large lorry and carried many long parcels, bendy parcels and big boxes into the backgarden, arranging them artfully over the garden furniture, before getting me to sign his clipboard and disappearing toute de suite.

I have no idea if all the right parts have been delivered because I could find neither an invoice nor a piece of paper saying 'This is what should be in your delivery'. It looks like it's all there. There are wooden bits (the doors), shiny bendy metal bits (the hoops for the main frame), straight metal bits (the crop bars and side braces), square metal bits (base plates) and polythene (cover). There is hot spot tape to protect the polythene from frying on the hoops in the summer and repair tape to mend the holes in the polythene your husband made with the scissors in his eagerness to open the delivery box. (Actually, he didn't damage the polythene, but it was a close call).There are also many screw bits, poky bits, twiddly bits and a booklet entitled 'It's All Yours Now, Good Luck, We're Off!'

Andy was very keen to open boxes and read manuals when he arrived home. This is unusual for him as he isn't a great believer in the reading of instructions, preferring the 'chuck it all on the floor and see which bit goes where' method of construction. But no, he's made a list of all the tools needed to construct the tunnel and this morning, over breakfast, issued the first instruction.

'We need to clear the site of weeds,' he said.
Was this the real 'we' or the Royal 'we', I wondered.
'We'll go to the allotment this evening,' he said. 'And start clearing the site.'

Operation Polytunnel is underway.

Meanwhile, I am psyching myself up to start running. I purchased a health and fitness magazine yesterday which had a special 'Anyone Can Run' feature. I also purchased 'Organic Garden and Home' because it had an article on ethical burials and eco-friendly coffins. It's odd, isn't it, how ideas can link together in sometimes sinister ways...

Anyway, the running article was very informative and provided an easy to follow programme for building up towards a 5K run.
'How far is 5K in proper money?' I ask.
'3.107 miles,' says Tybalt.
'How did you know that?' I ask, very impressed at his mathematical prowess.
'I used the conversion feature on my mobile,' he says.

Right. So just over 3 miles. I can walk that in under an hour if I get a shift on. I try and think where I walk to and from that would give me a more tangible idea of how far 5K is and whether I could run it and remain vertical. I decide it is the distance of a round trip to the allotment.
'I could run to the allotment and back,' I say.
'Why would you want to do that?' asks Tybalt.
'It would be quicker?' I say. I realise how very feeble this reason sounds. Unless, of course, I was being chased by a bear in which case it sounds a very excellent reason indeed.

'And which coffin would you like?' asks Tybalt.
'That one there,' I say, pointing to a nice slim willow number with flowers woven in the top.
'You're far too fat for that,' says Tybalt, because tact is one of his better qualities.
'I won't be after I've been following my running programme for a few weeks,' I say.
'True,' said Tybalt. 'Are these two topics related in any way, perchance?'
'I wasn't planning them to be,' I say.

But who can tell in the Great Adventure that is Life? Who knows what is around the Corner of Fate, up the Cul-de-Sac of Co-incidence, along the Avenue of Chance, on the other side of the Fence of Frisson?

Sometimes, you've just got to go with the flow and not think too hard about these things. Because sometimes, if you think too hard, you can think yourself out of some pretty amazing life-changing decisions.

(This last thought was brought to you by 'Psychic Mentor, part of the 'Message From the Other Side' Upstairs Crew who sometimes chuck their thoughts in with mine for no apparent or sane reason. I hope therefore, it makes sense to someone out there who reads this today. If it doesn't, I apologise for my lunacy and promise to keep taking the tablets...!)

Ground Force Part 2

We make a good team, Andy and I! Yesterday morning, the back garden/ chicken run plan took a great leap forward. Enthusiasm, compromise and no tea and cake until the first part of the fence was up were the order of the day.

This is how 'Team ANDYNISE' worked: (note my cunning wordplay in combining our names and making us sound like a brand of drain cleaner)

1) I took Andy a cup of tea in bed and shoved my artfully drawn plan for the back garden under his nose. He grunted approval (or is he catching a cold?) and made one or two suggestions which I agreed/ disagreed with but (and here is the trick ladies) I didn't tell him which was which!

2) we had breakfast and decided where to make our purchases. B & Q was out because there is never any sense of briskness at the tills and we were keen to get on (well, I was, and Andy got SWEPT up in my enthusiasm!), Homebase was out because I get easily distracted by their fluffy cushions and wallpaper with big flowers on it, so we went to Wickes because you can go in, get what you want and get out quick no probs.

3) In Wickes, Andy blatantly disregarded the sign that said 'PULL THE TROLLEYS, DON'T PUSH THEM OR THEY'LL GO ALL WIBBLY-WOBBLY' and did some wild, wibbly-wobbly pushing. I said 'It says to pull the trolleys' and he gave me a bit of look that said 'Back down,' so I did. We walked past the display which was selling bark chippings on a 'buy 3 for less' offer. Andy saw the look in my eye that suggested I might load his trolley immediately with many large and heavy bags of bark chippings and he said 'We'll get those on the way out.' I tried not to look too crestfallen.

4) We looked at various styles of fencing and wire mesh and posts and spiky post holders. We shared ideas about what we should buy which basically meant that I put random stuff on the trolley and Andy took it off and put on the stuff we REALLY needed. We ended up with 3 willow trellises, one fence post, one spiky fence post holder and six bags of bark chippings.

5) we discovered that not all our purchases would go in the car in one hit. Andy took the bark chippings, post and spikey post holder home and left me to guard the three willow trellises in the carpark. I while away the 20 minutes he is gone by glaring at people who park in the disabled bays with my best 'You-are-clearly-not-disabled' look. Andy returns, we put the trellises in the car and travel home with the trellises banging me in the back of the head.

6) we are on a roll now! Out come hammers and nails, digging implements and chickens. I dig the whole side of the garden that will be the long part of the chicken run, the chickens diving for worms as I go. I remove the remains of old shrub roots because I will not be beaten by lumps of bark. Andy nails the three willow trellises together and digs a hole to start off the process of banging in the spiky fence post holder/ fence post combo. I even see him using a tape measure rather than his usual 'Oh, it'll go there, that looks about right,' method. (Which can sometimes be around 6 man inches out).

7) Andy proceeds to bang the fence post into the ground using a rubber mallet. This is ineffectual and our neighbour agrees because he leans over the fence to offer the use of his huge metal sledgehammer. Gggggrrrrrhhh!!!!!! Proper man stuff!! Far more effective and even more so when Andy climbs onto a garden chair so he is above the six foot pole and can really give it a good whack!

8) Andy opens the bags of bark chippings and we cover the apex of the garden with them. Instant neat garden! We are a bit concerned as the bark chippings smell peculiar, sort of creosotey. Andy checks the packaging. 'It says they are safe for children's play areas,' he says. 'Who cares about kids?' I say. 'These are our chickens we're talking about.' We spread the chippings and pray for 4 live chickens in the morning. And now the hens have a big scratchy, barky ,behind-some-lovely- willow- trellis play area!! We stand back and admire our handiwork. Andy builds the hens a little roosting bench in the sunshine. The one shrub I can't get out of the ground will be handy for hanging cabbages and CD's on for chicken entertainment. We decide to abandon our plans to build the rest of the run from posts and galvanised green steel netting. We like the willow trellis so we're going to use more of that instead. It will be aesthetically pleasing.

We spend the rest of the day pausing periodically to admire our labours and say how lovely the garden is starting to look and aren't we dynamic? (whilst at the same time trying not to sound too smug). We are a good team, Andy and I.

Ground Force

Here's the plan:

1) the back garden is a MESS! It needs SORTING and it need sorting NOW! This I have decided after a sleepless night worrying about the back garden

2)the top triangle bit of garden and a 5 foot width strip running the full length of the garden on the side with the new, invincible fence shall be cordoned off with a range of fencing (willow being the current favourite). This shall be known as 'The Chicken Run' and is where the chickens can run, roost, scuff up the ground, dust bath, play poker, do aerobics and mud wrestle. The Chicken Run shall contain a dust bath, roosting perches, a bark chipping play area and cabbages swinging from the eucalyptus tree for the entertainment of the chickens

3) the fence currently separating the drive from the greenhouse will be moved DOWN the driveway thus creating a seating area for the garden table, two chairs and two benches. Denise shall then pressure clean the chicken poo from the aforesaid garden furniture, buff, polish and re-stain it to its former pre-chicken poo glory and place it in the new seating area which shall be then surrounded with some of the many beautiful plants that are growing in the greenhouse. Denise shall fill tubs and baskets and drape a wisteria over a pergola to create a lovely area for summer evening relaxation. This area shall also have the advantage of being away from the area where the next-door neighbours sit and chain smoke all summer and we shall avoid breathing in their stinky tobacco habit ourselves

4) the patio currently crowded with the garden furniture shall then be free to become 'Growing Facility Number 6' and house some of the 72 tomato plants that have managed to germinate. The patio may even be re-laid so it doesn't look quite so lumpy bumpy (but this will depend on the financial considerations)

5) the non-chicken run side of the garden will be covered with a variety of shapes and sizes of raised beds for growing vegetables and salads which can be gardened in peace and safety from chicken interference. The chickens may look whistfully at the raised beds from their side of the garden and rattle tin mugs along their fencing if they so wish but it will make no difference to the hard-hearted prison warder until she releases chickens in late autumn to clear the used beds for her and turn them over before winter.

6) the hops (which are now 7 inches high and looking v. lush) will be released from their chicken protection and trailed artfully over the swing bench which itself shall be raised on some nice paving slabs. The swing bench will become like a sleepy bower where Andy can rest his Bottom and Denise can prance around in a diaphanous gown like a Tit(ania).

7) the paths between the raised beds shall be sprinkled with gravel, unless the local cats decide to use it as their toilet facility in which case the paths shall be re-sprinkled with holly sprigs and sharp twigs

8) the garden will then look more like a nice cottage garden and less like the aftermath of the Battle of the Somme and Denise's mother will no longer have to bite her tongue over the state of it

9) we might even get the barbecue out again. And install a beehive.

10) Denise shall have no more sleepless nights worrying about the state of the back garden

That's the plan.

The best laid plans of mice and hens...

...before I start I wish to say there are no mice involved in today's blog. There were nearly some rabbits. On the way back from Norwich last night ,where we had gone to see Heather perform in a cabaret show,(which was excellent and made me want to take singing lessons and take to the stage myself), the roadsides were scattered with bunnies. Masses of them. I love bunnies. I said to Andy, casual like, 'Can we stop and catch some and take them home?' 'No,' he said. 'The hens wouldn't like them and we have no grass.' I thought, 'I'll pretend I need to stop for a tiddle break and whilst the car is at a standstill and I am off in the bushes, I'll nab a few bunnies, shove 'em in the boot and Andy won't be any the wiser. And when he says tomorrow morning 'Where did all those bunnies come from?' I can say, 'What, these old things? Had them for ages.'

I decided, on reflection, and without any bunny catching equipment on my person, this was not a good plan. The mice in the title are a purely tenuous link to getting onto the subject of hens and my plans going astray.

So, this morning I went into the greenhouse. My plan for today was 'Get the flowerpots, take to kitchen and clean ready for seed planting.' End of. In the greenhouse I got sidetracked into cleaning the floor and taking the old compost out front to the bee garden, ably assisted by the chickens. Andy appears.

'Wotcha doin'?' he asks. I ignore his casual use of slang. It is the weekend after all and he did drive up and down to Norwich yesterday.
'I'm giving the greenhouse a tidy, pre-seed planting,' I say.
'Call this tidying?' says Miggins, kicking a couple of flowerpots from one end of greenhouse to t'other.
'Shush,' I say.
'I need to start making my raised bed for the back garden,' says Andy. He has a faraway look in his eye, as if the sudden rush of fresh air has triggered a primaeval digging urge somewhere within.
'That means we need to empty the compost bin,' I say.

Now, this compost bin is one we started a few years ago. It was our first action towards leading a green life. We know it has needed emptying for a while although it does seem to possess Tardis like qualities in that no matter how much stuff we put in there, it rarely fills to the brim. But it is full now. And THE PLAN has been to use the contents of the bin as a base for Andy's raised bed. I am wary about what we might find inside when we release the contents. Horrors like sludge and foul smelling mud. Tree branches. Rats. Shergar. Lord Lucan...

'LET'S EMPTY IT NOW!' I shout, because it's one of those days when the urge to grab the bull by the horns and tell it what for is the air and I'm having a 'no-time-like-the-present' moment.
'OKAY!' shouts Andy because once I start, he starts and so does everyone else.
'HURRAH!' shout the hens, because they know that compost=worms which they like enormously. (Apparently, they taste like chicken. The worms, not the chickens which do taste like chicken because, well, it's in their nature, isn't it?).

So, Andy grabs the compost bin in a bear hug (I think this is because it looks like a Dalek and he can be a bit weird like that) and lifts it into the air with a flourish (this is a Victorian device made from a skirt hoop and 80 dernier stockings). The contents spill everywhere. I am hiding at the other end of the garden under some waterproof sheeting with an air freshner and a big stick with which to clobber the plague of rats.

BUT NO! What is released is compost! Proper compost. No foul smelling sludge, no rats, no missing lords or racehorses.The top third is not yet fully composted but is riddled with handfuls of proper pink squirmy compost bin worms like you see advertised in the magazines to buy for your wormery. Only we got ours for free!

'ELEVENSES!' yell the hens, falling on the worms like protein deprived crazed things.
'Oi,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'I am a protein deprived crazed thing.'
'NO!' I yell. 'DON'T EAT ALL THE WORMS. THEY NEED TO GO BACK IN THE COMPOST BIN!'
'TRY AND STOP US!' the hens yell. I do wish they wouldn't talk with their beaks full. You try to teach them manners but it's hard work sometimes.



So there is a frantic five minutes when I mount a Mission Impossible-style worm rescue before the hens eat them all. I could mention there was some foul play involved but that would be a very bad joke, so I shan't.

And then we shovel the proper compost into the raised bed area and surround it with wooden edging and breeze blocks all recycled from the garden. And then the hens came and had a good dig around and tried to kick it all out again. And Andy said, 'Oi, pack it in you naughty girls,' and waves his spade at them in a comedy-like fashion and a good time is had by all.

By the middle of the afternoon we had made a raised bed, relocated the compost bin (now only a third full) and I had dug up most of the roots of the shrubs I had pruned back last Autumn. And the flowerpots? Still waiting to be washed I'm afraid.

But like I said at the start -' The best laid plans of mice and hens...'

Mad, sad and dangerous to grow...

Who'd have thought it, eh? Me getting all flustered and excited about polytunnel brochures. This week I sent away for three (brochures, not polytunnels - crumbs, I almost felt Andy having heart failure reading that one) and have spent the last two evenings poring over the intricacies of 'The World That Is POLYTUNNEL!!' Tum-tum-taaaaaaa!!!! It's all hoops, fixings, foundations and stabilisers, not to mention width and length (but more on that later).

I've compared and contrasted the benefits of Superclear polythene against thermal anti-fog polythene. Or does Superwhite polythene with over-netting have the edge? I've become au fait with exotic sounding extras like the anti-hot spot tape, crop bar, storm stay brace and anchor plate. Then there's timber versus aluminium for your base rails and side vents. Or should we go down the trench root? And what about the overhead irrigation kit? Economy or prestige? We don't have to have an overhead irrigation kit but I rather fancy that on a hot day it might be quite pleasant to lie flat on one's back inside the polytunnel and be irrigated oneself. (Rather than irritated, which is usually the case.) It's all rather thrilling, if a little bit sad and middle-aged.

I have to say the best brochure so far is the one by First Tunnels, whose enclosed order form had a tea-bag attached, so I 'can enjoy a cuppa whilst browsing their goods.' I liked this touch enormously; also, their brochure has a nice 'silky' feel to it and is very, very easy to understand so even if I was an intellectually challenged gibbon, I'd still be able to order a polytunnel avec accoutrements in confidence. However, bearing in mind most of my decisions regarding car purchases have been based purely on their colour- 'that's a nice frosty blue one. It looks like the sky on a sunny day' - I shall be careful not to allow myself to be swayed by silky brochures and freebie tea-bags!

And then, to add to the frenzied polytunnel excitement, the postie delivered a copy of 'The Polytunnel Handbook' that I ordered from Amazon a few days ago. This book also feels silky to the touch because, I think, it 'is printed in the UK on recycled paper using vegetable inks by www.greenbooks.co.uk 'Must be a selling feature - 'stroke me, I'm lovely and natural!' So that's my weekend reading sorted.

Andy and I have decided we've space to fit a tunnel that is roughly 10 feet by 12 feet. I say 'roughly' because our measurements are based on us standing at the relevant section of allotment 87 side by side with our arms outstretched, fingers touching and saying things like, 'Well, I'm 5 foot 6, you're 5 foot 11 so that's 11 foot 5 inches plus an extra 6 inches because I've got arms like an orang-utan, then minus the water-tank when considering the length.' We adopted much the same method when assessing whether the huge semi-circular sofa we purchased last year would actually fit in our living room (only we used string for added accuracy.) It worked then, so it'll work now.

I'm a great believer in saying things like 'Of course it'll fit!' The only time I almost came a cropper was when trying to heave the goose in the oven at Christmas. But that was the butcher's fault because I distinctly remembering ordering a small one and he got me a big one, but it went in on the diagonal so all was well in the end and my goose was cooked. I think Heather may have inherited my optimism about big things fitting into small spaces because when she was 3, she put a whole orange Club biscuit in her mouth sideways. I had to break it in half to get it out again. And then there was the time she put a dice up her nostril 'to see if it would fit.' And it did!

So I'm off to make a cup of tea with my free tea bag and settle down with 'The Polytunnel Handbook.' I hope it all ends 'happily ever after'. I love a good story! And with a leading lady called Polly Tunnel, how can it not?