Farewell, Allotment...

And so yesterday Andy returned the allotment key to Plot 87 to the allotment committee secretary and we became ex-allotmenteers.

I felt a bit traitorous. Like I'd let down our vision of living the good life. Like I'd failed to manage other areas of my life in an efficient way in order to make 'time-room' to keep the allotment going. But really, after six years we've done the right thing. We both work full time, in stressful jobs. We both have other hobbies that take up our weekends. We have a house and garden to take care of, and three bee hives too, which are already showing signs of going crazy again this year. And we've learned a lot about growing our own.

What could I have sacrificed for the allotment? Writing? No way - writing makes me happy. Writing is what I do, first and foremost (Darn...if only I could make it pay!!). Reading? Nope. I love reading. I'd be a rubbish English teacher if I didn't read. Arty-crafty stuff? Well, that's sporadic as it is, and I want to do more of it.

No. The allotment grew too time consuming....

However....

...in our garden at home we have rhubarb growing and the transplanted gooseberry bushes are full of leaf. The raspberry canes are looking okay. The jury is out on the grape vines but we live in expectation. The hops and the herbs are putting on fresh growth. The apple and the damson and the nut trees are in leaf and blossom and baby catkin. And there are seeds planted up in the greenhouse - flowers and tomatoes. And Andy has made a new veg bed next to the herb garden. He has planted beetroot and spinach, broccoli and cabbage and something else, he can't remember what. The veg bed is netted and fenced against Les Mademoiselles Poulets who in turn are looking quite keen to un-net and fence it.

This weekend bean seeds will go in, and courgettes and lettuce. As they grow they will live in pots around the front of the house, turing the concrete oasis of our driveway into a lush forest of green and heaven help any of the local yobs who try and tamper with our runners.

And so we are carrying on! Not as allotmenteers, but as cottage gardeners. Which, quite frankly, I prefer the sound of. It suggests the need to wear a large floppy hat, and Victorian-style bloomers, and wander around snipping at things with lady-like scissors and depositing them in a nice little willow basket carried casually across my arm. It suggests gentle pottering rather than hefty slogging, genteel faffing rather than sweaty huffing.

I like that we have everything on site so we can keep an eye on it. If something is looking droopy, we can nip out and water it there and then. We can catch weeds as they happen rather than giving them a week's growth from Monday to Friday. And if we want to spend a day gardening, we have loo and tea and biscuits on hand rather than two miles across the other side of a busy town.

No more clearing up takeway debris that foxes have stolen from bins and spread across our plot on a Saturday night. No more fretting that we can't get to the allotment to water everything when we have a dry spell. No more listening to the comments of allotment neighbours (all retired and time-rich) who say things like, 'Haven't seen you here for a while.' No more missing perfect picking moments of the soft fruit and salad stuff.

It's not all bad.

One day we'll have a bigger garden. But for now, our little garden will do.

Oh, What To Do?

So, the school I tutor in is being made into an Academy in September. It has been taken over by an independent education group, and there is a new headteacher, who pops up periodically to have intense meetings and say 'hello' to people. He hasn't yet said 'hello' to me, because I hide upstairs in a little office, do my job and go home. I drift about the place like some kind of phantom - people know I work in the school, yet they always seem surprised to see me.

Anyway, one of the teaching assistants asked if I was coming back in September. In fact, she was insistent I did. 'Well,' I said. 'I don't know if there will be any work for me.'
'Of course there will be work for you,' she said. 'There is always work for good teachers.'
'Maybe,' I said, 'but I have slipped under the Academy net. My role is, as such, undefined.' (It's what comes of behaving like a phantom, I guess.)
'The new headteacher is looking for someone to develop a drama department,' said the teaching assistant. She clearly has her finger on the pulse of all things Academy. 'You should e-mail him and make him aware of your existence.'

Okay. So I thought about this for a couple of days. I like teaching drama. It is Much Malarkey on a grand scale. I have built a drama department before. I can do this job. So I contructed a carefully worded e-mail to the new Headteacher outlining my teaching talents. I also told him that because of my commitments outside of school - writing, allotment, hens, bees, staying sane - I was VERY reluctant to work full time. Four days a week suits me fine. I pressed 'send'.

Less than an hour later, a reply came back. Could I 'touch base' with him on Friday? (I guessed this meant 'meet up' and wasn't some euphemism for a sinister Academy activity whereby once I'm in I'll never get out alive.)

So Friday arrived. I loitered in Reception. The new Headteacher appeared. He shook my hand, and asked about my allotment and said he hoped I was taking care of my hands. He said that Senior Management spoke very highly of me. And that if Senior Management regarded me with high esteem, why would he want me to leave? Nay, he needed and wanted good teachers. He said he did, indeed, want to develop drama in the school. He said he couldn't make any promises though, and he said something about not having a bottomless pit of funds. He said he heard I taught English.

At this point I started thinking 'Oh-oh, I know what's coming here.'

He said that it was highly likely a post in the English department would be coming up in September and would I consider that? Could I e-mail him with what I saw myself doing regarding A level, GCSE, KS3, Nuture Group? (Nuture Group is very needy Year 7s arriving from primary school barely able to string two words together corectly so that they make sense. They generally have behaviour issues, too.)

So, here I am. Umming and ahhing. I have made a list of pros and cons of going back into classroom teaching. So far the pros are outweighing the cons by 8 points to 6. It's a close shot. But only if I stick to my guns and do no more than 4 days a week. I am composing an e-mail, laying down my 'ideas' and trying to sound agreeable and flexible, but not like I am going to be walked over.

My friend, Jean, sent an e-mail today with some sage advice for such occasions. She said, 'Handle every stressful situation like a dog. If you can't eat it or play with it, just pee on it and walk away.'

Not totally appropriate, the weeing thing, so I did the human equivalent which was go to the allotment for 3 hours. I sulphate and potashed the soft fruit. I watered the polytunnel and coo-ed over the rapidly growing seedlings. Some of the strawberries have flowers already. I sowed parsnip seed and planted a rosemary bush. I netted the gooseberry that is on the far side of the allotment out of reach of the fruit cage, because it has started to develop buds and the birdies will be after it. I weeded the last area to be weeded and decided here was a perfect place to grow some flowers. I poked the compost bin, having been very good and remembered to bring the waste food caddy from home to add to the mix.

I came home and set about greenhouse planting. In went the courgettes (green and yellow), the cucumbers, and three varieties of runner bean. And some basil.

And I think what my decision boils down to is that I really want a smallholding. Just a small one. An acre will suffice. So I can have more days like this - planting, weeding, growing, conversing with chickens and bees, anticipating harvest and flowers, and living the cycle all over again forever. And if I want a smallholding, I have to work so we can save up and buy a smallholding. And that's about it. I think.

Growing Inspiration

Up went the fruit cage today. It was like building with giant meccano, and Andy managed most of the construction himself, my help required only when several unruly pieces of steel needed holding at specific angles so they could be bashed together.

'It says in the instructions not to put up the mesh until Winter is over,' said Andy, once the actual structure was in place and we stood back and thought how much bigger it was than we'd anticipated. 'In case snow makes it collapse.'

I am fed up with Winter. It seems to have gone on forever this year. It has been hard work trying to stay motivated and engaged during the dark, cold days.

'I think Winter is over,' I said. I am thinking of all the flowers and blossoms that are out, the little patch of violets by the front gate, the new buds on the trees and bushes, the birds giving it some at 6 in the morning, the bees making more frequent forays into the great outdoors after three months hived up. I am thinking of Mrs Pumphrey's new Easter bonnet which is a confection to be seen to be believed.

'Even so,' said Andy. 'We might get more snow.'
'Ha!' said I. I am not having more snow. No way. No how.

But we decided to wait another month, just in case.

So we spent all morning starting to get plot 87 ready for this year. We made good progress. We dismantled one of the compost bins, dug over a couple of the growing areas and spread some compost from the bins at home. Andy planted some raspberry canes in their new fruit cage home, and I played hunt the renegade parsnips and carrots. We cut back the Jerusalem artichokes and gathered all the canes and netting together in a neat pile. We made plans for the polytunnel and the grape vines which will be coming into their third year this year and I'm hoping they might go wild and spread themselves further afield than the two feet they managed last year.

All together a strenuous but satisfying morning.

Unfortunately, I can't move now. And I fear I may be doing a very realistic impersonation of Mrs Woodentop tomorrow morning.

But it's good to get back to work in earnest on our mini patch of farm life, after what has been a very cold and very wet Winter when all one can do is stare blankly and morosely at the darkness and wetness of it all.

And did you see any of the World Book Night coverage on TV last night? Excellent stuff. It certainly fired me up to keep on writing, keep on exploring new genres.

It has, all in all, been an life-inspirational weekend.

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.

Educating Us

It is said that you learn something new every day. Yesterday, for example, I learned that Scott and Geraldine, our bee mentors, make exceedingly good cake. And today I learned that if you try and balance on one foot in your polytunnel after four and a half hours of digging in the hot sun and try to change your wellies and socks for pumps and bare feet in order to begin the half hour walk home, you are bound to over-balance and put your naked foot down into the pile of horse manure you put in the polytunnel two days ago.

Yuk! Still, no-one bothered me on the way home...

So yesterday evening, Andy and I began our bee-keeping course. Scott and Geraldine are independent bee-keepers, not affiliated to any local association. All they want to do is pass on their considerable knowledge to embryonic bee-keepers like us, and avoid the cliquey attitudes and behaviours that can happen in some clubs and societies. And that's fine by me. I've lost count of the number of times I've tried to contact our local bee-keeping association and been roundly ignored. You'd think, with the state of bee populations at the moment, they would welcome people keen to learn the art. Apparently not.

But we're off and running now! We've signed up for a block of ten 2 hour lessons, theory and practical, half-time tea and cake included. And what a lot there is to take in! Bees are a lot more complex and crafty than I ever thought. And managing a colony is a tricky art. Things to look out for, things to avoid, strategies to put into place to prevent swarming, and all the horrid diseases to which bees are susceptible. It's like being back at university.

But we enjoyed ourselves enormously. So much so that Andy said, 'We should find something else to learn about in the evenings. What else could we do?'
I stared. It was gone ten p.m. I was trying to remember what the name of the other type of brood frame was called - one was a Hoffman, the other was a ...??
So, quite randomly, I said, 'Cheesemaking.'

'We'd need a cow for that,' said Andy. 'Think of something else.'
'What's the name of the frame that's not a Hoffman?' I said. It was cheesemaking or nothing for me, I'm afraid.
'Manley,' said Andy.
'That's it!!' said I.
'I know,' said Andy. 'See, I was paying attention.'

There was considerable bee activity at the allotment this morning. I stopped periodically to watch them going about their stuff. And that's something else I learned today - that bees have the potential to be as good time wasters as chickens. There was also some wire worm activity, but I hoisted them off the plot PDQ - no wire worms wrecking our spuds this year, oh no!

And then I planted some carrots, beetroot and strawberries and netted the gooseberries to stop the birdies getting at the flower buds which I think is what happened last year, thus resulting in a total harvest of 7 gooseberries. Hardly a pie.

And then I staggered home, smelling slightly whiffy and feeling more than a bit achey.

If I was a bee, I thought, as I made my way up the slight incline towards the Manor, I would be able to fly home. But I fear I am even less aerodynamic than a bee; I'd never get off the ground.

Earth stood hard as iron...so does our resolve.

We haven't been to the allotment since well before Christmas. Because I have now re-joined the ranks of the full time workers here at the Manor, and we leave for work whilst it is still dark and it is still dark when we come home, the only opportunities for allotmenteering have been the weekends. Which have been either snowy or tipping it down with rain or snowing again.

So it was with some trepidation that Andy and I set off for plot 87 this morning. The sun has been out all weekend, but it has been bloomin' cold. Minus 6 bloomin' cold today. Arriving at the allotment site, I had to huff very hard on the padlock of the gate just to get my key to turn so we could gain access.

We dreaded what we'd find. A plot full of weeds. A polytunnel collapsed and shredded from two hefty downfalls of snow. A storage bin swept to pieces across the neighbouring plots.

But no! Our plot, like all the others, was relatively neat and flat and iced with a heavy frost all features intact. Our polytunnel stood proud and strong, a testament to the skills of builder Andy when we put it up last spring. And despite the ground being rock hard, we managed to winkle out some leeks and Jerusalem artichokes to bring home. We would have dug up some parsnips, too, only the leaves have died back and we couldn't remember where they were.

After a couple of months where we both felt disillusioned with our self-sufficiency dream, what with the sale of our house falling through and having to wave good bye to the cottage with the massive garden, we stood side-by-side and made plans for our plot this year. A fruit cage, definitely. Move all the fruit to one side of the plot, to take up about a fifth of the space, build a permanent structure as protection from birds.

Not so many potatoes this year. Concentrate on early news, and lates to fatten up for baking. More varieties of beans - try ones that can be dried for use over winter. Put a proper support structure in the polytunnel for the tomatoes, which were such a success this year but overgrew.

Melons. Turn one of the compost bins over to use as a hot-bed, stoke up with chicken manure to get the heat going.

More squashes. Less onions. More carrots - some of the fancy colour heritage varieties. More greens like pak choi and chard. I'll try taking some cuttings from the hops and see if I can propogate some new bines. (Auntie Nece says it's a doddle - she did it many a time on her parents' hop garden).

We may never be lucky enough to own our own acre of land, but I guess the important thing is that we make the most of the land we have got, albeit a small rented plot and a garden at home. And even more importantly, as we approach our fourth growing season, we have learned from the previous years. We have begun to know what works and what doesn't. What crops are efficient to grow and what remains cheap at farmers' markets and therefore a waste of precious growing space.

And maybe this year will be a bee year for us. This April we will have been chicken keepers for 2 whole years. Time for more live-stock, and bees we can accommodate.

And now it's time to make marmalade again. Two large bags of seville oranges await my attention. Our rhubarb is poking its way through the ground, bravely facing the rest of the winter where even the hardiest of weeds are still hiding.

And onwards we go. Doing our bit the best we can.

Baby Face

Today I saw the first photos of Baby Bun Grand-child! Scan photos, of course, in glorious monochrome, but photos nevertheless and it was very exciting!

There were four altogether, strung in a line like the ones you have taken in a photobooth for your passport. Head facing towards us, then in profile, bum in the air and then casual recline position. Little hands, little feet, little head. Actually, the face one was a bit scary, being like a shadowy skeleton, but it was fascinating to see the nose, eyes and mouth and the way the skull bones are joining together at the top. I liked the profile one best - it looked like a broad bean with a retrousse nose.

Anyway, all is well and Baby Bun Grand-child is 16.8 cm tall. Quite a handful already.

I was at the allotment at just after 7.30 this morning. Things are starting to die back now but I was surprised to see the runner beans throwing up more flowers so perhaps there will be a secondary bean crop. I did some tidying, some digging and some weeding. And then I noticed I was being pursued by half a dozen wasps. I thought, I wonder what it is that's attracting them and then I realised that I was digging the area next to the raspberry bushes and every now and again I was pausing in my digging to nibble on a raspberry or five and they were being drawn to the scent I was making by picking the fruit. I picked cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, beans, carrots, tomatoes, onions, peppers, chard and spinach and came home with two full bags of produce, the sun in my face and a feeling of oneness with vegetables.

Back home there was a fracas occuring in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. I went to investigate and found the Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe seeing off a tabby cat that had wandered haplessly into their domain.

'And don't come back!' yelled Mrs Miggins, dusting her wings together in a 'Job Well Done,' kind of way.
'Everything all right, ladies?' said I.
'It is now,' said they.

Chris and Leane popped around for lunch hence my viewing of Baby Bun Grand-child photos. At one point during their visit Chris said, 'Why do I feel like I'm being ganged up on when I come round here?' Bless him! He was in the company of his girlfriend, his mother and his sister all at the same time- how else does he expect to feel? But he got a cheese panini and a jam doughnut so it couldn't have been that bad an experience.

Ah doughnuts! I haven't had a proper jam doughnut for well, must be well over a year. When you make your own cakes you don't tend to get involved in the shop bought stuff but as my oven is still out of commission following Sunday's explosion and as I happened to be in Sainsbugs this morning I thought, I'll get some fresh jammy doughnuts as a treat. They were delicious. Mmmmmm...mmmmm....mm!

And Andy texted to say the operation he had to do on a cat's willy this morning went well and was only mildly traumatic. He showed me pictures in a text book last night of what he was going to do today and I never realised a cat's willy was such a complex organ. Fiddly, too, with lots of tiny, tiny component parts all flopping and dangling over each other.
'You really need delicate fairy fingers for this kind of malarkey, don't you?' I said.
Andy nodded. 'And patience.'
'Shall I come and mop your brow for you?' I said.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'As long as you promise not to take over.'

I wasn't sure if I could make this promise. It all looked very fascinating and as I pointed out, I am very nimble fingered, what with all the needlepoint I do.
'I bet I could give it a fair shot,' I said. 'You could stand at the side and call out the instructions.'
'Hmmmmm,' said Andy with a barely disguised air of uncertainty.
He's very clever, my husband.

And that's about it for today.

Tumble World

Yesterday was a day that just didn't stop. It was a tumble drier day, a day when life didn't let up, spinning and twirling and jumbling around. It's good to be busy, I kept reminding myself. It's good to be purposeful.

Guy the Builder arrived with Russell the Plasterer to do the six little jobs around the house that we'd arranged on Monday.
'We'll start with the roof and the patio,' said he. 'There's supposed to be rain later.'
I looked at the clear blue skies and allowed myself an internal snort of disbelief.

'I'll pop into town and get your money,' I said. I also needed to get some cocoa powder and bin bags so thought I could nip to Sainsbugs and use the cash machine there.

On the way back, I got soaked by a small but very wet shower of rain.

I made Guy and Russell a cup of tea and gave them some cake and biscuits.
'Have you got a pair of tweezers?' said Russell. 'Only I've got a splinter.'

I inspected the proffered finger. The splinter appeared to have gone into his finger at a 45 degree angle. Russell was looking a bit pale.

I located the tweezers. 'Can you take it out for me?' asked Russell, looking even paler.

So I set about splinter removal with a firm but kind manner. Russell did a lot of wincing and gasping. 'I think I'm going to go,' he said, now having reached ultra-pale on the human skin tone chart. I was thinking, for heaven's sake, it's only a splinter.

But when I pulled it out, and it put up a huge resistance before it finally gave way, I did feel a bit more sympathetic to poor Russell's plight. It was a whopper. Almost as big as a twig. But not quite.

My friend Maggie phoned. I told her about my impending Grannyhood, about Heather having graduated and about the house being up for sale.
'I'm expecting the surveyor at 11.30,' I said. 'He's coming to do the energy thingy for the HIP doo-dah.'

The surveyor arrived at 11. He looked alarmingly like Pierce Brosnan and was entranced by Pandora who stole his biro and his ruler. Anyway, he wandered around the house taking photos of things like the utility meters and the boiler. I thought, you really need to get out more. And then he asked me a few questions and we both tutted about the appalling waste of time and money that these HIPs are, and then he went.

The phone rang again. For the last two weeks a call centre in India has been trying to get me to participate in a survey that will only take ' a few minutes.' In my experience, they usually take considerably longer and once you've responded to one survey they'll keep coming back for more. I keep telling this call centre to remove our number from their dialling list. Obviously, I am not being clear enough in my request but I'm being very good and haven't yet resorted to screaming and swearing. However, if they persist in calling I am going to employ a selection of funny accents and characterisations, if only to make this daily disturbance more fun for me.

Guy and Russell were racing on with the jobs. I sat down to do the household accounts to make sure we'd be solvent at the end of the month. Chris appeared.
'How did Leane get on at the boot fair?' I asked.
Chris muttered something which sounded like English but didn't make a huge amount of sense. I caught the words 'nineteen pounds', 'sunburn' and 'tennis racquet' and that was about it.

Chris left and the phone went again. My friend Alison. Alison and I started school together. That means we've been friends for 39 years. She'd called to tell me that her daughter had got an 'A' grade in her English AS level. 'She wouldn't have got it without your tutoring,' said Alison. 'So would you carry on tutoring her when she continues with the A2?'
'Of course,' I said. I was thrilled for her daughter. She was fun to tutor and it just shows that all youngsters need is someone who is enthusiastic about their subject to give them confidence to be enthusiastic about it too. I thought, I ought to do more tutoring. So maybe I will.

Guy appeared. 'We're all done,' he said.
'Good grief,' I said. 'That was very efficient.' And I inspected the work, which was all excellent. I paid Guy for the work.
'And don't forget,' he said,' if you ever want any livestock - pigs, goats, chickens, ducks, geese, even a cow, give me a call and I'll put you in touch with my mum.' Guy's mum has a farm. I'd already showed Guy pictures of the house we have made an offer on. 'Plenty of room there for a couple of pigs, goats and more poultry,' he said.
'I agree,' I said, feeling suddenly very excited about this house. 'And bees.'
'Even a little orchard,' said Guy.

And then Andy came home. We had dinner, then went to the allotment. Now, a few weeks ago we planted a dozen or so tomato plants in the polytunnel. I thought, they're well enough apart, it'll be a doddle to pick the tomatoes, unlike last year when it was like beating your way through the jungle in our much smaller greenhouse.

The polytunnel looks like a jungle. I could see many ripe tomatoes, I just couldn't reach them very well. But I am a Tuesday's Child, so full of grace and light of foot. I tiptoed through the tomato jungle and collected the tomatoes. We also brought home beetroot, runner beans, French beans, raspberries, courgettes, spring onions, ordinary onions, rainbow chard, spinach and cauliflower. Several pumpkins stared ominously at me from the squash patch. 'Pick us if you dare,' they seemed to say. What am I going to do with you lot, I thought.

So a very busy day. A good day. A satisfying day. A hurrah to make me smile day!

Scrappy news

For lack of something intelligent/ controversial/ funny/ angry to write today, I've plumped for snippets of drivel...

Corr but it rained yesterday! It thundered and lightninged, too, so I'm not expecting many eggs today what with oviducts being easily startled by sudden bangs. Or at least I am bracing myself for eggs with funny bumps in the shells. I thought, all that rain, the courgettes will be the size of marrows, so I went to the allotment first thing and discovered the courgettes were the size of small courgettes. Ah well. There were some runner beans to pick and I got a big old Tupperware box of blackberries, too, so the journey wasn't entirely wasted (although the large courgette/marrow carry-bag was.)

Back home I gave Pandora her first taste of catnip chocolates. She and Tybalt shared a healthy scattering between them and then lay on the kitchen floor, totally spaced out and batting their paws at each other, only they kept missing. Whilst Tybalt is a big hefty Tom cat and can handle his catnip,Pandora is still a delicate (although rapidly growing) kitten and she is now reposing on the top of the scratching post tower looking like she has the cat equivalent of a heavy hang-over. Still, all the while she is doing that she isn't launching herself at my legs and adding to the scars that are already there!

I've spent a couple of hours on Authonomy, trying to avoid aggressive Americans marketing their books and people deliberately trying to wind each other up on the Forums. Another nine chapters of Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue were added at the weekend by my publicist (i.e Andy) and the book is chugging its way nicely up the ratings. I'm doing my best to read five other books a day (not whole books, you understand - that would be CRAZY -but the synopsis and three chapters) and to comment as constructively as possible. I can't think I'm ever going to get to the Editor's Desk but it's not my modus operandi. A top 100 place would be nice.

Er...what else? Oh yes, doing some planning to start a web-site! This seems to be the next obvious step for Much Malarkey Manor. I've also started another blog (currently Top Secret as I want to see how it goes before I reveal its whereabouts and whyabouts) which is giving me practice in doing IT stuff for myself instead of looking pitifully at Andy and saying 'Andeeeeeeeeeeee....I can't dooooooo this....can you heeeeeeeeeeeeelp me.....pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze,' which is what I usually do re: interwebbly techno-stuff and is very, very pathetic of me. (But I am a girl).

And finally, my Achilles tendon is playing up again. This is my own stupid fault. On Sunday, after we'd done three hours at the allotment, I said to Andy, 'I'll go and unlock the top gate' (our usual gate being blocked by a lorry) and he said, 'Okay, but stop faffing, I want to go home,' and I said, 'I'm not faffing,' and he said, 'You are. I'll get to the top gate before you at this rate.' So I said, 'No you won't,' and I RAN to the gate which is quite a way away, and Andy chased after me in the car.

I won, of course, despite being on foot. I won because I zig-zagged in his path with my arms outstretched and he didn't feel he could run me over because I had Sunday lunch to cook when we got home which included the promise of a blackberry and apple crumble. And I had the gate key, so even if he had overtaken me which he says he could have done easily (yeah, right!) he'd have had to wait for me to undo the padlock.

And the upshot is that I've done my lower left leg in again.

Will I ever learn?

Unlikely.

Manly Andy

The allotment this year is being a bit like a watched pot. It might be because I spend more time up there so don't get the sudden impact of things growing like we used to last year on our once weekly visits. This year things seem to have taken AGES to get started and I was beginning to think I'd be lugging veg back from Sainsbugs forever, but no! Look! Today - tiny baby runner beans, tiny baby courgettes. Tiny baby tomatoes and ripe blackberries (And yes they are blackberries. Looked like them, smelt like them, tasted like them so HA! Old Geezer on the plot next door.) Tiny baby rocket, tiny baby carrots, tiny baby beetroot and tiny baby spring onions. Even a tiny baby cauliflower head which excited me enormously. And of course, the new potatoes are ready, as are the radish, shallots and the onions.

The Jerusalem artichokes are nearly five feet tall and I am excited about the flowers that should be appearing soon because Jerusalem artichokes are dual purpose - pretty flowers to cut for the house on top, strange shaped tubers underground for eating. The squash, pumpkins, aubergines, peppers, French beans, leeks and cabbage have all had a sudden growth spurt as have the autumn raspberries. The strawberries, sadly, have finished but fed us well whilst they were growing.

'I am going to level out the inside of the polytunnel,' Andy announced as we arrived this morning. It was clear blue skies and blazing heat and the Big Drippa seemed to be doing its job admirably well.
'And I shall prepare the ground for the planting of broccoli seedlings, sunflower plants that are erring on the side of straggly and the sowing of the seeds of swede, turnip, chard and pak choi,' I said, because, after 3 years, we are finally getting the hang of successional sowing.

And after half an hour of honest toil in the sun, wearing our floppy sun hats and growing pink of face, Andy became manly and TOOK OFF HIS TEE-SHIRT! And went BARE CHESTED! How manly is that???

I thought, I wish I could do that. But bare lady chests are not the done thing at allotments, not if you want your lease renewed next spring anyhow, and besides, having already inspected down the front of my jimjam top that morning and wondered if I really ought to be wearing a supportive garment 24/7, I decided staying lady-like covered was the only proper option. And I was already having a builder's bottom crisis, because every time I squatted down, there was a pleasant waft of air twixt the top of my jeans and the bottom of my vest top. Luckily, I had on a floaty, bohemian overshirt and no-one screamed so I guess it must have been long enough to cover the flesh gap if there was one.

So Andy marched around the plot with the wind blowing through his curly chest hair and I sweltered.

Everything got planted and netted 'gainst the evil that is pigeon except the nasturtiums which I couldn't for the life of me remember what veg they are supposed to companion plant. So they have been popped into the polytunnel whilst I find out and they can be planted out later this week.

The only downside was when we arrived at Plot 87 this morning we found it covered in the remnants of Chinese takeaway and assorted cartons, several Coke cans and a shredded copy of the Sun. Our first experience of vandalism. But oddly, I didn't get angry or even mildly annoyed. I cleared up the mess and got on with allotmenteering.

Weird, that.

Blackberry Rage

I nearly committed a murder last night. I came within a gnat's whisker of creating an Old Geezer sized hole next to the rhubarb patch at the allotment and filling it in with an Old Geezer.

The Old Geezer in question is the one who has an allotment opposite ours and who donated a rhubarb plant earlier in the season when I was in rhubarb crisis. In fact, it was probably only this neighbourly donation that saved his Old Geezer skin.

Andy and I went to the allotment yesterday evening to install the Big Drippa, do some watering, pick whatever crops needed picking (strawberries and radish) and do a bit of weeding.

I started on the strawberries because I am a girly; Andy started on the Big Drippa because he is a man. Old Geezer calls across 'How are your loganberries doing? Or are they tayberries?' He is gesticulating in the direction of our blackberry bush.

'They're blackberries,' I call back. 'And they're doing very well thank you.'
'Are you sure?' says Old Geezer. 'They look like tayberries to me.'

How he could tell I don't know, unless he had a telescope or bionic eyesight.

'No,' I say, ' they are definitely blackberries.'

Old Geezer is having none of it. He comes marching over with a look in his eye that says he intends on having his own way. What he doesn't realise is that I hold the Miss Stubborn Award for Most Stubborn Person in the Entire Universe and have done so since 1974 when I refused to believe that Michelle Lovell's drawing of a golden labrador deserved a higher place in the class drawing competition than my picture of an elephant with no ears.

Old Geezer examines the blackberries on the blackberry bush.
'They're tayberries,' he pronounces and then he LIGHTS a CIGARETTE and puffs it at me in a very defiant way.

WELL! I'm always going to try and win an argument if I am 100% sure I am right which in this case I was, but I am DEFINITELY going to win the argument when someone starts SMOKING ON MY PLOT!

'I'm sorry,' I say, 'but I am NOT backing down on this. It is definitely a blackberry bush with blackberries growing on it.' And I finish with a laugh that could be conceived as subtley menacing.

Subtlety is wasted on Old Geezers. He merely draws hard on his cigarette and then marches into our polytunnel to quiz Andy on the Big Drippa and to offer his infinite wisdom on how best to rig it up.

'What kind of tomatoes are these?' he calls out.
'Plum,' I shout back, when what I really want to do is yell, 'STOP SMOKING YOUR FILTHY CIGARETTE IN OUR POLYTUNNEL AND POISONING OUR PLANTS.'
'Roma?' he calls.
'Yes,' I shout.

There is a pause. 'You want to keeping pinching out the side shoots or they'll get too bushy,' he says.

I ignore him. I know this already. I defy him to examine the tomatoes and find a single side shoot anywhere.

I know about blackberries too. I grew up on a fruit farm, for heaven's sake. Blackberries, damsons, gooseberries, raspberries, strawberries, loganberries, red currants, black currants, even white currants, my grandparents grew them and I picked them. In 1973 I earned £4.50 picking blackberries for a month which gave me ample spending money for our holiday in Brixham in Devon. You could buy a lot of tat in 1973 for £4.50.

By now I am scrabbling under the blackberry bush trying to find the plant label. I want to wave it triumphantly in old geezers face and say 'HA! Blackberries!' But it has gone. I think that maybe I took it home and put it in my allotment record book, should I want to purchase further blackberry bushes to add to this one.

Old Geezer had left the polytunnel, gone back to his allotment and returned with a berry that looks nothing like our blackberries.

'Look,' he says. 'A tayberry.'
Hurrah, I think.
'Most blackberries are round,' he says. 'Yours are tapered like my tayberry.'
'Well,' I say, gripping onto my bowl of strawberries because the thought of crushing them wastefully whilst murdering an old geezer is just about holding me back. 'These are definitely blackberries.'

'Hmmm,' says the Old Geezer. 'Must be a variety I've never heard of before then,' and off he goes, taking his tayberry with him.

'Miracles do happen,' I mutter, when I am certain he is out of earshot.

I pick the half a dozen raspberries that have chosen to start ripening. I go into the polytunnel where Andy is suffering the ill-effects of cigarette smoke and unwanted advice. I hold out my hand containing the raspberries.

'Have a melon,' I say.

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.