Give us a kiss.

Though I say it myself my beetroot are splendid again this year, and this is how I like it, on a freshly baked home made bread bun, deeelicious.

Don’t ask me why I have this success as I don’t do anything special to them, and use the cheapest of seeds that I can get hold of, Boltardy @ 49p a packet from our local cheap shop.

Maybe it’s the watering, as I do give them plenty on a regular basis when they are forming. Or could it be, (you organic disciples look away now please) the industrial strength ‘growmore’ I put on them.

Whatever it is, they have come great again, and it hadn’t gone un-noticed as I was about to find out.

No, not by the judges of the Best Allotment Competition, (have I told anyone yet that I’ve won it this year) but by the little old lady on one of the neighbouring plots.

I was down there the other day and had just picked a bunch of bonzers and a big swede to take home, when I heard her plaintive voice directed my way saying, “My beetroot haven’t done very well this year, have yours?”

Well I could hardly say no could I, standing there holding this great bunch, a couple of which that wouldn’t have looked out of place between the back legs of a prize bull.

“They ‘re actually very good”, I said, and seeing her longing look at the ones I was holding, I took the hint. ”Do you want some of mine”, I went on, holding them out to her.

“Oh how lovely, that’s very kind of you my dear”, she said, snatching them from my grasp accepting the offer with glee, “Can I give you kiss for them”.
 
Whaaat, a kiss !!!!!

Now here was a major problem, as I don’t do physical contact with relative strangers you see. Just going to the barbers brings me out in a cold sweat, and God help me if I ever have to see a proctologist.

Purleese, can’t we just shake hands and have done with it, I thought. But I could see her determination as she leant towards me puckering up, with a small dribble of saliva on her lips. The contortions of her mouth were so pronounced, as to put me at a serious risk of being hit by her flying dentures.

What was I to do, I thought?

Luckily she had her eyes tightly closed, and as she got closer and closer I panicked and put the swede I was holding where my cheek should have been.

Of course, I was disgusted with myself for my actions and must have been the same colour as the beetroot when she opened her eyes

I don’t think she noticed though, or if she did she didn’t say anything only that I needed a shave.

My flabber was gasted.

When I started my allotment it was with the intention of keeping costs to an absolute minimum, so that I could see a return for all those hours of labour put in. I wanted it to be in keeping with the old traditional allotment ethos. As a result, I have created a modest plot that is simple but efficient and though I may say it myself, is neat, well kept and stocked to full capacity.

However, I do admit that  I  look around at the plots of some of my neighbours with a touch of envy at times, green of course.

There are those that have taken out small bank loans to buy enough paving slabs to have perfect paths around their plots and between the beds. Whilst others have used their lottery winnings to purchase whole rain forests to make raised  beds.

Some have large new sheds, big enough to live in if their other halves ever kick them out, and made out of the best tongue and groove. Yes I have shed envy. They even have gutters and down pipes leading into not one, but two, water butts. How extravagant is that.

 One has a  lawned picnic area in front of a  shed adorned with beautiful hanging baskets, and a frame over the gate with a rambling rose growing up it. The family who have this plot come down in their droves at the weekend with petrol strimmers and rotovators whining away. They have it all spick and span in no time, and whilst I’m labouring away on my own with my trusty hoe cursing  the caterpillars, they’ll be cracking open the Stellas  at the picnic table and striking up the barbecue.

I sometimes wonder if growing vegetables has become a secondary function of their plots, the first being to impress the neighbours, and also, and more importantly I suspect, the judges of the Best Kept Allotment competition.

In contrast to all this, my paths are just plain trodden earth with  string to demarcate the individual growing beds. My humble shed was bought for the princely sum of £85, and had been reduced because there was a piece missing. It’s 6’x4’ and not big enough to swing a mouse around in it never mind a cat. I don’t have any manicured lawns or flowers, and the bench where I sit to eat my jam sandwiches is a simple plank of wood nailed onto two upright logs.Put it this way, they needed to have no fear of me winning the competition.

Anyway, I got home the other day to find a letter from the council on the doormat, and thinking it was an early bill for the rent, I opened it to see if they’d put it up.

Well you could have knocked me over with a feather, it was informing me with great pleasure that I am the winner of this years Best Kept Allotment in our parish!

Chuffin' eck, would you believe it !!!

The letter has also cordially invited me to the next parish council meeting in September to receive a whole £20’s worth of gardening vouchers and a certificate. I hope they don’t want me to make a speech !

Molluscophobia.

Picked a couple of cauliflowers today, and I was reminded that they were the first vegetables I ever attempted to grow.  Don’t ask me why, as they must be one of the most awkward and I didn’t particularly like them back then, but now I love them.

At the time we were a newly married young couple living in a ground floor rented flat that had no garden at all, only a small patch of bare soil at the back that barely saw any daylight never mind sunshine.

It was when the Good Life was on television, the first time around (God I’m getting old), and I fancied Felicity Kendal was hooked on the series. I wanted to grow vegetables just like they did and be self-sufficient, but I hadn’t got a clue what to do. I diligently dug this tiny bit of earth, bought a packet of seeds, carefully sowed them just as it said on the packet, and waited for what seemed forever.

I checked for signs of life everyday, but nothing happened, then to my surprise after a few weeks, some little seedlings eventually struggled through into what should have been daylight.

Oh how I nurtured those delicate little plants, and as I’d avidly watched Gardener’s World I knew I had to guard against weeds and slugs. There was no need to worry about weeds, as nothing grew there of its own accord, but slugs were another matter altogether.

The backyard where the patch was situated was both dark and damp, with ferns growing out of the wet wall where the guttering overflowed. It was a slug heaven if ever there was one and you could see their trails everywhere. Any stone or brick you turned over would reveal a family of the horrible things living under it and they even got into the kitchen through the air bricks.

Yes we had House Slugs, and more than once I trod on one at night making my way to the bathroom through the kitchen. I once went to get a knife out the cutlery drawer and the handle moved when I grasped it, Arghh !  Oh yes it was, and I developed something of a phobia of the things after that, hence the title above.

We tried, the usual methods like putting salt down, but that didn’t stop them, they just laughed and tossed it over their shoulders for good luck. Someone suggested beer, but they had a party and got pissed on it I think, it would have been better to just drink it myself and not be bothered about them.

So it was a constant battle to keep them off my precious little cauliflower plants, that were struggling for dear life as it was in those pitiful conditions.

Then one fateful morning I found just the stalks left, they had been devastated by a rapacious slug army. Not only had these evil molluscs damaged me psychologically for life, they were now trying to rob me of my inner farmer.

Thankfully I overcame this setback and went on to future vegetable success, but I never got over my fear and loathing of slugs, and I can be turned into a quivering jelly at the sight of just one, especially those big black ones that look like liquorice!!!!!