Winding Down

The allotment is winding down. We are letting it wind down permanently. Six years we have sown and nurtured and harvested, and weeded and planted and cleared up after the bloomin' foxes who seem to enjoy a nice Chinese takeaway and can of Coke on a Saturday night.

But it's time to stand down, to let someone else have a go. Our time has been taken over by other things, mostly work, and now we are a four hive family of bees, we have decided we would rather dedicate our weekend good life spot to them. The bees need us more than the courgettes do.

So we are planting no more. There is still some harvesting to do - tomatoes, courgettes, beans, parsnips and carrots, Jerusalem artichokes, scorzonera and salsify. And some greens. And some winter squash. And this weekend Andy brought home some grapes and a little melon!

But over Winter we shall dismantle the fruit cage and the polytunnel and store them ready for when we get our little cottage with a massive garden. We shall dig up some fruit canes, the grape vines and the herbs and bring them back home. Home will be our little veg plot from here on in. It's on our doorstep. We might not be able to grow the quantity, but we can still manage some quality. The back garden has delivered up unto us this year lettuce, tomato, cucumber, damsons, apples, beans, herbs and celery. Yes, celery! I am a big fan of celery so I am thrilled!

We are thinking that we shall manage quite nicely, growing produce from home. After all, we always grow more at the allotment than we can eat. We're going to plant a couple of cob nut trees. Have pots here and there. It'll be okay.

We shan't have to fret in dry spells about getting to the allotment to water it. Or fret about having to miss a weekend because it's tipping it down with rain. Home gardening will be more manageable, more time efficient. We'll be there, on the spot, to deal with problems when they arise, and potter about to pick produce at its peak.

And when we come to sell our house in three or four years' time, which is the plan, we shall have a lovely established garden that will show potential buyers exactly what can be achieved in a small space.

Part of me is sad because when we are at the allotment, we love it. And part of me is relieved that the sometimes pressure to keep on top of the weeds will be gone. And part of me thinks, 'We did it. We learned how to grow our own food, we have a skill and it's a skill we'll never forget.'

And when we get our enormous garden, we shall dive in and set up and grow and enjoy the whole full on veg experience again.

But now it's time to concentrate on other things.

Allotment- tea-ing

We spent a lot of time at the allotment this weekend. And I mean 'a lot.' Well, the weather was too good to miss out on, so off we trotted first thing Saturday morning to begin some earnest gardening. And for the first time in 4 and a half years, we took the camping stove with us, some tea bags and mugs, and a saucepan and a little flask of milk, and we stopped for elevenses and had a proper cup of tea.

Now usually, if we are having a long allotment stint, Andy takes a flask of tea or coffee and I take a large bottle of water. I refuse to drink tea from flasks because I think it tastes rank and I like tea and if I am going to drink it I want it made properly i.e fresh, with proper milk and preferably in a teapot but a cup 'n' spoon will do provided the milk goes in first. The allotment site is woefully short of fresh tea-making facilities i.e in the form of a clubhouse. It is also short on loos - actually, it has no loos - so I am always wary about drinking too much up there in case I get caught short for a tiddle.

But then we pay a peanuts rent each year, so one can't expect posh facilities, I suppose.

Anyway, we camped. And it was great! Andy managed not to set fire to/ explode the polytunnel with the butane cannister, and we had a nice cuppa and some biscuits to break up the morning stint. But we did have to nip home to have a spot of lunch and a tiddle before returning for round two in the afternoon.

'What I need,' I said,' is one of those lady toilet things. I think they are called 'She-wees'. And then I can nip into the polytunnel, pretend I am examining some seedlings, avail myself of the she-wee and I won't have to nip home when Nature calls.'
'Yes,' said Andy. 'And we can bring a picnic.'

Andy is very keen to picnic at the allotment.

Despite a whole day allotmenteering on Saturday, we went back on Sunday afternoon and did another stint. And as a result, Plot 87 is looking absolutely fabulous! We are ON TOP OF THINGS this year because we have a PROPER PLAN! HURRAH!!!

Sunday morning was spent making decisions about the back garden. What with the chickens being once more at large, because of the dismantlement of Cluckinghen Palace, we needed a GRAND PLAN to bring greenery to the back garden, because we sure as heck aren't going to see grass there again.

So the plan is...

....MANY HERBS and a WILLOW ARCH!

Yes, dear reader, we are heading towards the next addition to the Much Malarkey Manor skills base which is to build living structures from willow. In fact, I've just ordered the kit. Just now. Five minutes ago. It comes with a free DVD for us willow structure virgins, and will be arriving by Friday, or early next week. It will go up near the back of the garden.

I said to the man, 'Will chickens have a go at it?'
And he said, 'I doubt it. They can never work out how to use the DVD player.'

Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!!!

He didn't really say that because he didn't rise to the bait of my willow versus chicken silliness. He said rabbits would eat it, but thought chickens would leave it alone. They'd better or I shall be weaving some chicken-sized willow baskets pretty darned quick, I can tell you.

I have planned an extensive herb garden, following in detail the information in Jekka McVicar's Complete Herb Book. I have considered pots versus in the ground, hardy versus annual, culinary versus aroma and have a definitive list of 25 to start off with including five or six I can put at the allotment in the semi-shaded bit by the polytunnel. The herb garden project will also involve me attempting some elementary building-with-bricks-type skills but you know me, I'll give anything like that a try. Can't be more complicated than Lego, surely?

And I have purchased some herbs and done some preliminary chicken tempting with them. The only one they showed a mild interest in was angelica, and that's only because I think it was big 'n' leafy-like; they both spat out the bit of leaf they pecked off, so fingers crossed the back garden will eventually return to some greeniness.

If the willow arch building goes well in the back garden, we are going to have a go at building a willow garden room at the allotment. A living willow garden room, eh? Now that WILL require the use of a tea-pot!

Manure

So half past eight this morning, the Man with the Manure was sitting with his truck by the allotment gate waiting for us to let him in. And it turned out I knew the Man with the Manure. His name is Paul and his parents used to own the riding stables I learnt to ride at as a child.

Now, when I found the Man with the Manure aka Paul on ebay, his advert said he would deliver '2 and a half cubic metres of horse manure' but I wasn't really sure what two and a half cubic metres of manure looked like. I did a spot of wild measuring in the kitchen, paced about a bit, and decided it was 'that much.'

That's okay, I thought. We can dig that into the allotment no probs, maybe get him to deliver another load if necessary.

However, it seems that two and a half cubic metres of horse manure takes up a lot more space than two and a half cubic metres of kitchen air. There is a subtle difference in aroma too.

Blimey! Once it had been dumped from the back of the truck, we were shovelling sh...barrow loads for three hours and a half hours!!! Okay, the hours were punctuated with digging over the polytunnel, pruning the soft fruit and transplanting the strawberry runners, but we didn't half move some manure, and there is still a third of the pile left to redistribute.

It was steaming, too, like a smelly sauna. It reminded me a bit of when my parents had a mushroom farm. Every Friday morning, 36 tonnes of horse manure would arrive on site and before we had a mechanised filling line we had to shovel it all into the growing trays by hand. Well, by spade.

And as I shovelled, and Andy spread, and the allotment became covered with eau de parfum de cheveaux, the only thing I could think was 'I really want a farm.'

We had a high old time allotmenteering this morning. The sun was shining, there was a gentle breeze. Ladybirds and bees and worms were plentiful, and little buds were showing their faces on the fruit bushes. The daffodils were opening and all was looking good.

So, the question is - 'How much is two and a half cubic metres of horse manure?'

And the answer is (according to my achy muscles) 'About 57 hot, smelly, steamy tonnes.'

And shall I be calling the Man with the Manure to deliver us another load?

Not bloomin' likely!

Not again...

You know how we live on the end of a road? By a junction. And that since we have lived here, we have collected 3 stray dogs from the end of the road who suddenly appear from nowhere and run about gaily to play with the traffic, because it is a well-known fact that in a dog and car fight, the car always comes off worst. Ha! (Dogs have a very skewed idea of their invincibility. 'That,' says Phoebe, 'is because they are dogs and therefore stupid.)

Anyway, Andy went out this morning to scrape the car free from ice, and five minutes later he reappears...carrying a puppy.

'Not again,' I said.
'Again,' said Andy.

This little chap was about 3 months old, a terrier cross with the most beautiful auburn fur, and a happy, sunny nature. As Andy had to go to work, I dug out the ball of string, fashioned a make-do lead, (I am beginning to think I ought to buy a dog lead to keep in the cupboard for future occasions), and set off around the streets and park to see if anyone was looking for a lost dog.

It makes me cross, people who take on dogs without providing for their safety. This is the fourth time we've found ourselves temporary doggie guardians. Unless this is God's way of telling us to get a dog, but I suspect the cats might have something to say about that. ('Too bloomin' right,' say Phoebe and Tybalt. 'What? Who? Look at me, I'm sooooo cute. I'm the most important, I am,' says Pandora.)

So I tromp around the streets and the park, asking everyone I see if they know who this little chap belongs to. The little chap is having a whale of a time, tree sniffing, running zig-zag, indulging in a spot of barking, rooting around in crisp packets, looking up at me as if to say, 'Can I come and live with you?'

After an hour I decide to give up and head home to phone all the local vets and rescue centres to say 'We've found another dog.' Honestly, we're going to get ourselves a name as dog-knappers at this rate. And as I round the corner into our road, there appears before me a young girl about 14 or 15 years old. She looks like she is looking for something. Like a puppy.

So owner and pet are reunited. I say, 'You are going to look after him properly, aren't you?' and she goes into a long speil about how they've only just got him and he escaped from the kitchen when her dad went in to feed him and they're going to get a cage to keep him in for a little while but they haven't sorted it out yet etc etc etc.

I don't really want to know that. I want to know that she is going to be responsible for knowing where her dog is at all times. I do not want my next encounter with this little fellow to be as dog jam on the main road.

'What's his name?' I ask, as the girl thanks me again.
'Digger,' she says.

I say goodbye. Stupid name, I think as I head home.

I've been calling him Basil.

Dog-sitting means I am late for my planned activity of the day which is allotmenteering. Anyway, I scoot off and spend nearly four hours digging and tidying and enjoying the sunshine before I need to return home to have a wee. And now, as on Sunday, I am stiff as a board and can't move. And I have a blister. Never mind, Plot 87 is looking good. The fruit cage is sparkling in the sunshine and the postman has delivered a seed catalogue with a £10 off voucher inside.

So this afternoon I am reclined on the chaise, making a seed list, doing a spot of writing, a spot of reading and a spot of sewing. Pandora is sitting on my lap.

'You're not going to get a dog, are you?' she says.
'No,' I say.
'Coz I'm the best,' she says.
'You are,' I say.

Vegging Out

Yesterday, I planted the asparagus in the new asparagus bed. Some green stuff, and some purple stuff. This means we now have to stay in this house for at least two more years because the first year after planting asparagus you have to leave any spears that grow alone, in order that the newly planted crowns (that's a technical term y'know) can build up their strength. And then in year two you are supposed to do only a light harvest, so you don't really get to pig out on asparagus until year three.

And I have to say that planting the crowns was a bit of a faff. First you have to dig a deep trench. Then inside the big trench you make a little ridge and then you drape your crowns over the ridge as though you were balancing a many legged cowboy on a particularly wide horse. And then you back fill your trench. Have you ever seen an asparagus crown? Weird looking things. If you attach one to your chin, you can do an impression of an Ood from Doctor Who. I know this because I tried and then I surprised Andy by sticking my head around the kitchen door and saying, 'Look at me! I'm an Ood!!'

He said it was a very impressive impersonation. Like an Ood was ACTUALLY there in person. Or Oodson.

Anyway, the asparagus is in and I shall wait with nervous trepidation for signs of greenery lest I have killed it/ planted it upside-down/ got my trench-ridge ratio completely skew-whiff /covered it up so deeply that it will ne'er more see the light of day.

And because the greenhouse was positively tropical I also planted some salad leaves in the hope we're going to be getting a summer this year.

Next, the allotment. Gave the polytunnel a good spring clean. Dug up a hundred-weight of Jerusalem artichokes before the whole plot became over-run with them. I tell you what, if you want a crop that requires minimum effort for maximum output, the Jerusalem artichoke's your man. Bucketfuls of the things we've got.

Pulled up some leeks. And located the parsnips at last. That's the problem with parsnips, I find. If you don't get the blighters out of the ground before their foliage dies back, you've lost them. Still, a bit of judicious prodding in the vicinity of the area where I thought I'd planted them soon produced success, and after that it was just a case of following a straight line upwards to get them all out of the ground. And on the subject of parsnips, I'm going to try chitting the seeds before I plant them this year. They can be tricky to germinate and you can lose a lot of space through no-growing seeds. Putting them on damp kitchen roll (in the manner of growing mustard and cress) can get them started and then you concentrate on planting the seeds that show signs of life and consign the dud ones to the bin.

And so we embark on year 4 of allotmenteering.

The only new growth that isn't appearing at the moment is the Baby-Bug Grand-Daughter. She was due to arrive today. It is half past eight in the evening. No sign of any action as yet. I wish she'd get a move on. I want to buy her a mini-gardening kit and take her allotmenteering with me.

Oh dear, what can to-mato be?

Andy and I have been very bad. We haven't visited the allotment for four weeks. I know, I know, what kind of allotmenteers are we? I'll tell you...we are the kind of allotmenteers who do their best for 8 months of the year and then run out of fizzle somewhere around the middle of October when everything has been harvested and/or stops growing, including the weeds. Also, the weather hasn't been helping, the last three weekends or so being heavy with rain. And walking on land where one grows stuff is a no-no during wet weather, because it mucks up the soil structure or something - that's our excuse anyway, and a pretty valid scientific one at that.

But this Sunday we knew we had to go and sort out the polytunnel. I'd been having nightmares about it; that the tomato plants that had been so fruitful for us for the last 3 months would be reduced to a brown slimy stodge and that the rest of the allotment plot would be drowning under a quagmire, rotting our Jerusalem artichokes in the process. Some serious tidying up for winter was needed, and the dreadful deed could be delayed no longer.

So it was with some trepidation that we visited Plot 87, dressed in wellies and raincoats, our heads hanging low with shame. And guess what?? The tomatoes were still growing!! We picked, in the middle of November, 14lbs of ripe tomatoes, 10lbs of green tomatoes and a shedload of big, fat and decidely unrotting Jerusalem artichokes!! There are still chilli peppers on the pepper plants and a couple of aubergines making a final bid for ripeness. Oh, shame on me for doubting the powers of Mother Nature's growing abilities.

So we cleared out the polytunnel, tidied away the old beans and sunflowers, did some weeding, upped some cabbages for the chickens and came home with many, many tomatoes, many artichokes, some carrots, parsnips, beetroot and spinach and a feeling that actually we weren't such naughty allotmenteers after all.

We have now reached the end of our third year as trainee self-sufficiency bods. In those three years we have learned many new things. We have grown a vast majority of our veg, a good dollop of soft fruit, and flowers for the bees. Our hens have kept us in eggs for well over a year and a half now. We have learned how to make breads and jams, chilli sauces and marmalades, sausages and wine. We have acquired a greenhouse, a polytunnel and a hen house. We have made our own compost using two bins and a wormery. And some of our experiments have worked well, others have flopped like a great big floppy thing.

But the biggest thing we have learnt is that a huge amount of progress is possible in a very small space i.e our wee urban back garden and an average size allotment. We have learnt that when you pull together as a team, like me and Andy, you don't need to upsticks and move to live a dream, you don't need to have acres and acres of land to help make a difference to your world and contribute to the welfare of Planet Earth.

But what I haven't learned is what to do with all these bloomin' green tomatoes that are sitting in the kitchen! I've found a recipe for River Cottage HQ pickle. I think I might have a go at that.

End-of-the-Week News

Nettle beer update: Yesterday, Andy decanted his nettle beer into wine bottles. All six litres of it. Andy reckons it looks like dishwater. Last night, one of the bottles expelled its cork across the room. I reckon it could be pretty potent stuff. I shall be sending Andy for an eye test after he has finished drinking it.

Allotmenteering : on the plot first thing this morning before Andy knew what was happening to plant out pea seedlings, runner bean seedlings (I say 'seedling'. Most of them are a foot tall) and start clearing the space in readiness for polytunnel construction. We have a new friend at the allotment. His name is Julian and he is a blackbird. And, oooh, isn't he bold?? He comes right up to you and stares with his beady blackbird eye. I could have reached out and patted him on the head with my trowel this morning. I nearly did, too, because he had a beak full of slug.
'Take your slug away,' I said. 'Don't you be dropping slugs near my newly planted pea and bean seedlings.'
'Mmmmfffhhmfffmppphhhh,' said Julian.
'Aaaargghhhh! Save me!' yelled the slug.

Bees: Our friend, Jean, popped in for coffee this morning. During general chatter we did some accidental bartering whereby we got another compost bin, some flower pots and a big bunch of canes and string in exchange for some strawberry plants, seed potatoes and tomato plants when they are a bit bigger. Jean has also offered to bring slugs, snails and cabbage leaves for the chickens. 'I'd thought about bringing them before and leaving them by your back gate,' she said. 'Only I didn't want you to think you were being stalked by some weirdo with a cabbage and mollusc fixation.'
Jean has also offered part of her huge garden as a site for our bee hive. We are very tempted to take her up on this offer. Very tempted indeed. The bee-keeping plan is becoming way over-due in its implementation.

Running: This week I am going to start psyching myself up to start the running programme proper. In preparation for this, my left leg has developed a pain that stretches from the middle of my calf down to the outside of my ankle. I think this is from excessive digging this week, so at the lottie this morning I took special care to dig with my right foot instead, in a sort of cross-legged need-to-go-to-the-loo-motion.
'What ARE you doing?' said Andy, in fond admiration of my yogic contortions. (Either that or he was trying not to laugh.)
'Saving my left leg for jogging,' I said.
'And mucking up the right one in the process?' he said.
'I feel it's important to maintain a balance,' I said.

Cooking: Now Heather has returned to university, I have to remember to cook for two instead of three. Or four, for the time when Chris was still living at home. I anticipate there will be excess foodage this week whilst I adjust so if anyone wants to pop in for dinner, please do. There will be plenty.

Greenhouse: having shipped out the peas and runner beans this morning, there is now space for part 2 planting which will be more beans (French), sweetcorn, lettuce and late leeks. The coriander has gone from being virtually non-existent to rampant in 3 days flat and I'm not sure what to do with it now so will need to research next stage coriander growing. The parsley, too, is doing extremely well and has just started to go curly. My Auntie Nece, who visited this week from Scotland, said 'If parsley flourishes in a garden it means the woman is the dominant partner in the house,' and she gave me a bit of knowing look. I think she was trying to say, in the nicest possible way, that I'm a bossy moo.

Chickens : Mrs Miggins's erratic, weird-shaped, flimsy and broody egg-laying seems to be subsiding and she's getting back to normal. Well, about as normal as a chicken can be, given that they are quite the most beserk creatures I've ever looked after in my life.

Cats : we still have two cats. I have a few names lined up for any others that drift our way...

...and that's about it.

Like Mrs Miggins's 'plant 'n' kickabout raised vegetable bed', (which is doing very well, even if it is a bit difficult to decipher what is coming up where. Carrots, peas, kale, radish, lettuce, it's all in there, jostling for position) this week has been an eclectic mix of the normal and bizarre. Still, we muddled through, the sun is shining and no doubt the world is waiting to present more opportunities and challenges in the week to come.

I'm off to make crumble now, for tonight's pudding. Rhubarb up one end for me, apple up the other for Andy. A bit of an odd combination, maybe, but rubbing along side by side in sweet counterpoint nonetheless.

Slugs 'n' Snails 'n' Slow Worm Tails

Allotment day. The mists hang heavy across the land; the air hangs humid with er, humidity. We need to get the rest of the potatoes in and move the storage bin before the arrival of the polytunnel. Optimistically, I thought I'd take some seeds to plant (beetroot - red and yellow- carrots, spinach, spring onion and kale) but one look at the old compost heap that rose like a citadel and was in need of flattening tells me seed planting will have to wait.

We march our plot and check the crops. The Jerusalem artichokes are sprouting, the raspberries are putting on much leafage. And the gooseberries have gone from sad little twigs to lush bushes with a hint of tiny flowers appearing. The first potatoes we planted are poking foliage above the ground and need earthing up. The onions are shooting green javelins toward the sky and the shallots resemble the hairstyles of Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street. I pull some rhubarb from last year's plant which is going wild with growth now I've removed the flowers. We allocate tasks. Andy to plant potatoes and clear away old brassicas, me to dig over the old compost heap and level it with rest of plot ready for planting. Andy to move storage bin to other end of plot, me to help him if it looks like he might collapse mid-move.

All is quiet, all is calm as we start work. Then...

'OMIGOD!!!!' yells Andy.
'WHAT?' I yell.
'SNAILS!' yells Andy back. And he's right. In lifting the wooden pallet the storage bin has been standing on, he has revealed a colony of about three hundred snails. Tall ones, short ones, some as big as your head.
'We'll take them back for the chickens,' I declare, throwing snails enthusiatically into a box.

Back to work. Then...

'EEEEEK!'
That was me.
'WHAT?' yells Andy.
'SNAKE!' I yell back. Actually, it's a slow worm. A BIG slow worm. Now, slow worms are a protected species and you aren't supposed to disturb them. However, I have inadvertently disturbed this one by flinging it across the diameter of the compost heap during my vigorous digging efforts. So I rescue it and relocate it to the new compost heap. I just hope the slow-worm police don't come after me for this transgression. Nor for the second one when I discover its mate in a similar fashion.

During the digging, I suffer my first two insect bites of the season. That'll be me itching and puffy for a week now. Still, I'm better off than the insect that bit me. That's dead.

After three hours we decide to go home. The snails in the box have made several attempts to escape. It's like they know what their fate is to be. Psychic snails.

At home, we take the box of snails into Cluckinghen Palace and place it reverently on the ground, waiting for the hens to launch themselves enthusiatically at this heaving pile of fresh protein.

'What's that?' asks Poo, suspiciously.
'Slugs with houses,' says Miggins. 'I've seen 'em before. They're a bugger to eat.'
'Well, I'm going to give them a go,' says Slocombe, 'because you know how hard it is for me to assimilate protein and I need all I can get.'

Mrs Slocombe selects possibly the tiniest snail from the box. She spends at least five minutes swinging it around by its head, bashing it against wood chippings, small stones and other chickens. In fact, all four of the hens race each other around the play area in pursuit of cracking open this one tiny snail. Behind them, the other 99 snails we've brought home are making fast their escape. Andy is sitting on the swing bench laughing like a loon at our idiot hens.

I want to get a hammer and smash the snail shells open for the chickens so they can have easier access.

'NO!' yell Andy and Heather in unison. 'That's cruel!'

I have no idea when my husband and daughter became members of the Snail Preservation Society. I mean, I haven't seen them wearing badges or anything. But it's 2 against 1 so I may have to wait until nightfall before I sneak out into the garden with my hammer...

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.

Mixed blessings - a Day of Dedications

Grasping the opportunity of a rather nice spring morning (i.e it wasn't raining), I decided a spot of allotmenteering was in order, especially as my first early seed potatoes are chitting like fury and will need a prepared bed in a couple of weeks' time and the allotment looks a bit post-winter raddled to say the least. So I popped on my wellies and scruffy allotment coat and marched across town, ignoring the odd looks from people in cars on their way through the rush hour. (Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen a woman in wellies before.)

Four and a half hours later, I am back home and as I can't move because my legs and buttocks have gone into spasm, I have settled in front of the laptop, and in the words of TV's great 'The Fast Show,' today I shall mostly be blogging in the style of mixed blessings and dedications.

To the masses of worms I dug up today -I am sorry I disturbed your underground work, and thank you for aerating the soil so beautifully. May you avoid small boys who might be tempted to carry you around in their pockets in order to frighten small girls with the invitation 'Wanna see my worms?'

To the squirrel whose food store I inadvertently discovered - my sincere apologies for disturbing your nuts, but thank you for that magic moment when I thought I'd managed to grow a whole pile of peanuts without actually planting them

To the old bloke who said 'Nice parsnips,' as I left the allotment -I'll assume it wasn't a double entendre but either way, thanks for the compliment

To the woman who was so engrossed in texting on her mobile phone that she did nothing to prevent her four small children running amok amongst the traffic in the busy car park outside the David Lloyd leisure centre -you can replace your mobile phone, love, but kids need more than a quick battery charge to recover from being squished flat like bugs

To all the young, high-heeled and high-fashion girls who looked down their little snub noses at me as I schlepped home in my mud-clogged wellies looking extremely dishevelled whilst trying to wrestle an armful of parsnips that were wrapped precariously in some old pea-netting because I stupidly forgot to take a bag with me - I LIKE my hair pouffey, okay??

To all the kids on half-term holiday that were hanging around street corners looking bored -why aren't you at home doing your homework/coursework? Your future depends on it

To all the ducks and geese on the river -may all your eggs be fertile

To the rain -thank you for holding off long enough for me to get home dry. I don't think a net of parsnips would have been a wholly successful umbrella but feel free now to rain all you like on my freshly dug allotment

To Phoebe, who I KNOW is loitering around the net of parsnips even though I cannot see her from where I am sitting-DO NOT CHEW THE PARSNIP TOPS! They'll make you throw up and I'm in no mood for clearing up cat vomit

And last, but not least...

To my beautiful, talented, funny and kind daughter, Heather, who was born at 2.55 p.m twenty-one years ago this very day - it's all hereditary, you know. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

We've got an allotment! Nyah, na na na nyah na!!

A couple of years ago - or was it in a previous lifetime? - a book on allotment keeping flung itself at Denise whilst she was perusing the shelves in her local bookshop. 'That's funny,' she thought. 'I hate gardening.' But she purchased it, nonetheless and took it home to show Andy. 'That's funny,' he said. 'You hate gardening.' 'I already said that,' said Denise. 'Sorry,' said Andy.

Not one to spend good money on a book (and a hardback at that) and not read it, Denise settled to improve her learning curve of allotments. And as she read, she felt herself thinking, 'Hmmm, maybe this isn't such a silly purchase after all. And one can purchase very nice floral wellies these days.' What Denise didn't realise was that she had caught the zeitgeist. She had heard the word, of course - Andy said it all the time - but she'd never bothered looking it up and just nodded like she knew what it meant every time Andy used it. Anyway, the upshot was that Denise and Andy acquired an allotment and have been ploughing their furrows ever since (furrows are the things underneath the weeds. They're where you grow veg and stuff.)

And now, of course, everyone wants an allotment. There are waiting lists as long as bindweed. People are beating each other to death in the streets with shovels in order to get closer to the front of the allotment queue. Denise and Andy feel smug at having got there first.



'Isn't it satisfying looking at your dinner plate in the evening and saying 'We grew that,' says Denise. 'Not the sausages of course, although we did make them ourselves with our new sausage machine. It's a pity you hate vegetables, isn't it darling?' ' Well yes, they are PARTICULARLY POISONOUS to us Northerners,' Andy agrees. 'But as long as you disguise them in the form of, say, curry or chilli or pies, then I'll eat them.' Andy parks his whippet in the bike rack outside and hangs his flat cap on the coat rack then sits down for tea - courgette curry. And sausages.



And what is the biggest lesson Andy and Denise have learned in their last two years of heroic allotmenteering? Well, there are two actually -1) Don't ever grow more than two courgette plants. The fruit they produce is inflatable and they will haunt you the whole year by supplying you with unnaturally monstrous amounts of courgettes and you'll end up making courgette wine (still waiting for the explosion from the attic), courgette fritters, courgette jam, courgette brickettes, courgette insulating material and courgette socks and 2) weeds will always grow faster than anything you plant deliberately. And very few of them are edible. Denise knows. She's tried.