Dangerous Liaisons.

I’m letting you all into a little secret here, by saying that I erm, rendezvoused with a certain young lady recently, and it’s not the first time either.

We meet at regular intervals throughout the year, because she’s so good with her hands, and listens to all my woes whilst running her fingers through my hair.

What’s more, Mrs N doesn’t mind a bit and actually makes me go to see her, as she doesn’t want to do it anymore, like she used to until a few years ago.

There is a down side however, as it costs me 6 quid every time I visit, and a 50p tip if she’s exceptionally good. But I suppose that’s not bad for a decent haircut in this day and age.

One of the main reasons I go to this particular hairdresser is that she knows I have an allotment, and as she grows things in her greenhouse, it gives us something to talk about.  The trouble is, she thinks I’m an expert and it always turns out like a session of Gardener’s Question Time.

“ My tomatoes wouldn’t go red this year,” she said the other day, “what do you think I did wrong ?”

I haven’t a clue, I thought, but I did tell her of one young woman I’d heard off, who tried watering her tomatoes in the nude, to make them blush.

“And did it work ?” she giggled.

“No it didn’t, but her cucumbers grew by four inches”, I replied.

Now here’s a warning, don’t tell your barber any jokes whilst they’ve got the tools of their trade in their hands, because she was now laughing so much that the scissors were menacingly going all over the place.

That, and the fact that she’s probably the fastest hair cutter in the west, had me in serious fear of leaving the place looking like Van Gogh !

With it being Christmas, she offered me a free bottle of Budweiser as a thankyou for my patronage throughout the year, but I don’t really like these new fangled beers. So not  wanting to upset her I accepted it, in the true Yorkshire spirit of never to refuse anything but blows.

It came in quite handy as it happens, because being straight from the fridge the bottle was cold enough to use for cauterising the blood coming from my earlobe.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Tom

Less is more.

In an effort to avoid using farmyard manure because of the dubious qualities of some you can get, I religiously compost everything I can down at the allotment and also from the garden and kitchen.

When I say religiously, I don’t mean I say a prayer over the compost heap every Sunday morning, when I take stuff down. Though, I have been known to ask my maker to not let there be any rats under the old carpet covering, when I take it off.

No, I mean that every scrap of compostable material that we produce, including lawn cuttings, leaves, paper towels, cardboard and even blog bog roll tubes are diligently saved for the heap,

It all adds up to a very big pile at the end of a season, positively spilling over from my pallet bins, like some classical cornucopia of decaying matter.

But where does it all go, because when I come to use last year’s, the pile will have shrunk to next to nothing and I’m lucky if I get a couple of barrows full from it. Once again, at digging time, I’ll be left looking at those great steaming piles of manure belonging to my allotment neighbours, with green eyed envy and ever diminishing standards.

Whilst wheeling some of my precious material in the barrow the other day, I saw old Bob looking over the top of his manure pile.

“You want to get some of this stuff on it ”, he shouted over, casting a disparaging eye at my pitiful barrow load, “best cow s**t for miles”.

As he hadn’t actually seen me get the barrow load from the compost heap, and so didn’t know exactly what it was, I decided not to be out done.

“Ah but this is very special stuff ” I told him,

“Oh, what’s special about it then ?”, he asked.

“It’s from a bull and because it’s more concentrated you don’t need use as much”, I told him, with as straight a face as possible.

(Sorry about the picture quality, the camera was shaking for some reason)

For a fleeting moment I had him, then the penny dropped.

“What a load of Bulls**t”, he said, and ambled off to continue with his digging.

Rest In Peas.

It was a lovely sunny morning when Grandma was driving three year old Emma to nursery recently.  Munching away on a biscuit, and no doubt dropping crumbs all over my newly cleaned car, the little one spotted a man on a tractor ploughing a field.

Emma....“What’s that mister doing over there Grandma ?”

Grandma....“He’s a farmer sweetheart, digging his soil like Grandad does ”.

Emma....“No Grandma, Grandad’s not a Farmer”.

Grandma....“Well what is he then darling ?”

Emma....“He’s an Allotment, silly”.

Well I never! Stereotyped by a bloomin' three year old, I ask you !

When Grandma told me this little anecdote, I was quite amused, but it also set me thinking.

Is this how I’m seen now by my family in my later years, and what’s more, is this what I’ll be remembered for when I’m gone, having an allotment ?

What about what I did in my working life, will I be remembered for that? and am I not now a writer blogger, guitar player and local historian even (well I do find old things on the plot).
 
All these other talents so obviously invisible to this poor unfortunate child, perhaps I need to work on my image a little more before it’s too late.  

But you know what they say, “out of the mouths of babes” and all that, and I suppose I ought to be grateful really that she doesn’t describe me as a pub or a betting shop. But please little Emma, if I am to be an allotment in your eyes, can I be a well tended, fertile and productive contribution to the horticultural world, and not the weed infested and pest ridden entity that I am at the moment.

Now I’ve thought about it  I quite like the idea, and I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad after all to be remembered for my allotment  by my family when I’m gone, or even as one by Emma. I can just see it now :-

                                         

The Tree of Optimism.

A friend of mine is a member of our village Parish Council, and me being of an allotmenteering bent., he asked me to help with a special job recently. It was the planting of a replacement apple tree on Parish land, for one that had become diseased and had to be felled, and which was protected by a tree preservation order.

Little was known about the now truncated old tree, such as when it was planted or what variety it was, which I thought rather sad. It had stood there forlorn and forgotten  in  that field for a very long time, but must have  had some significance once,  having ended up with a TPO on it.

Stumped (gettit !) as to what variety it was, we plumped for a good old  fashioned Bramley as its replacement, that will hopefully supply the innards of many a scrumptious apple pie for years to come.

Before

After

When the sheep in the field where it was to go, were eventually corralled off, the deed was duly carried out on a very wet and windy afternoon with their prolific droppings clinging everywhere. I must admit, for a while I wondered what the hell I was doing there!

People who passed by expressed an approving interest, except for one doom laden old lad who deflated me a little.  “You’ll just have to wait about seven years now, to see any apples from it”, he muttered, and it did make me think, given our ages!

It reminded me of the tale of the very old man who wanted to plant a tree, but his wife of sixty years questioned whether it was worth doing at his extended age.

“Hmm, I see what you mean”, he said, but after a short hesitation added,  “I’d better get on with it sharpish then, hadn’t I”.

Now was that just an acceptance of his fate, or a defiant show of optimism in the continuity of life beyond his own existence.  I prefer to believe the latter.

So in solidarity with that old man and in memory of the old tree, it was worth getting p***ing wet through and covered in sheep s**t for, I think, even though I may have to wait a while for some apple pie.

50 Shades of Shed.

I recently repainted the allotment shed, and with these new wood treatments now being available in such a range of bright colours, gone are the days of painting your shed in either dark or light creosote. The world is now your rainbow, and you can be as flamboyant as you wish. But what does your choice of shed colour possibly say about you?

There's 54 actually.

Quite a few of these colours, from a big company's ‘Shades’ range, I think would match  some of the characters down at the allotment site.

For instance there’s :-

OLD ENGLISH GREEN  - A nice chap who’s getting on a bit, with a well to do accent and likes cricket.

SOMERSET GREEN - Re-cycles his many empty plastic cider bottles as miniature cloches.

WILLOW - Always borrowing something or other, and never brings it back.

WILD THYME - She’s the life and soul of the annual on-site barbecue.

PURPLE PANSY -  Not afraid to show his feminine side.

MUTED CLAY -  Keeps himself to himself, and never seems to move much from his deckchair.

BARLEY WOOD  - Would she? Can you introduce me please.

FRESH ROSEMARY - Has a bit of a personal hygiene problem.

SEA GRASS - Will smoke it.

FOREST MUSHROOM - A friend of Sea Grass.

FORGET ME NOT -  Seldom remembers to turn the site water tap off.

PALE JASMINE -  Doesn’t grow brassicas and should, because she’s obviously lacking iron in her diet.

HOLLY - Prickly old b*gger with red pimples on his nose.

COASTAL MIST - Can be seen to drift in and out a few times around early summer, then you don’t see him for the rest of the year.

JUNGLE LAGOON - Has what was once an ornamental pond, that’s now covered in blanket weed .

DEEP RUSSET - Forever hoisting his baggy trousers up. Oh sorry! I thought it said gusset.

“And what about Tom Netall, what has he picked ?", you may be wondering.

Well it’s SEASONED OAK for me (that’s Dark Brown by the way) - Stoic and not one for showiness, but obviously a tight old sod, as that was the one reduced down at the local DIY store!

Flippin' eck !

I’m loathe to use swear words on this blog, in fact apart from the odd ’bloody’, I think you would struggle to bloody find one. The main reason being, that you never know who might be reading it, and I wouldn’t want any member of the Royal Family to be offended now would I.

Well I can assure you dear readers reader, that I am not the saint this makes me out to be. I can use ‘pit language’, as my mother used to call it, with the best of them. In fact at times, I find it an essential part of my vocabulary, such as when I’m driving or watching politicians on television.

Down at the allotment site, we have one particular character who has perfected the art of swearing to such an extent, that he not only swears every second word, but every third and fourth as well. I’ve mentioned him before, Effing Phil. We nicknamed him that to indicate his particular favourite.

My dear departed brother also had a favourite swear word, ‘chuffin’, and did enough ‘chuffin’ to have had a memorial plate erected in his honour at the York Railway Museum. I always thought the word quite benign, as he would use it in front of anyone he met, but I recently googled it (with its attendant letter g) and got quite a shock. I now wonder if he knew all along, and just didn’t give a damn.

I don’t have any favourites as such, as I like to keep my options open and tailor them to the situation. So, for instance, a dunked biscuit that decides to go for a swim in my tea may get a ‘b*gger’, whereas the tea spilt on to my lap, would definitely get a mumbled ‘f**k’.

I’m also known to use the word ‘b**tard’  quite a lot as well, but in an anthropomorphous way, whereby I give life to inanimate objects. So for instance, if Mrs N hears me shouting “come here you little b**tard”, from the garage, she knows I’m not swearing at one the grandkids, but at a dropped screw that has rolled as far under a cupboard as it’s possible to do.

I reserve my strongest outbursts however , with words strung together on a bejewelled necklace of profanity , for situations where I get  physically injured.

So, in keeping with my blogger policy, I can only leave it to your imaginations to fill in what I said when I recently did this down at the plot.

Thumbnail of a thumbnail.

 

Leeks and Leaks.

I was dispatched to the plot a couple of weeks back by Mrs N, to see if there were any leeks ready yet, to make her delicious leek and potato soup.

To my delight, there were some big enough, and I'd just started to lift them when it started to rain. Not just any old rain, but M&S rain, the type that marinates and saturates you to the skin.

The leeks, on a sunny day.

It was ok though, as I have a shed, not just any old shed, but a B&Q shed, from that place where you buy something then have to queue for ages to pay for it!

In the shed is a folding canvas chair, not just any old...........no I won’t do it again, I promise........so I decided to sit it out. But I hadn’t noticed the chair was wet, from one of a few leaks that have recently appeared  in the shed roof, that I haven't got round to fixing.

All was well for while, and I entertained myself  watching others scurrying around the site, who haven’t got sheds, get thoroughly soaked. They are cheap enough at B&Q  after all, so it serves them right, skinflints!

Then slowly an awareness of dampness crept in down below, as the wetness from the chair infused the three layers of clothing I had on, right through to underpants. I’d given up going commando a while ago, after the thistle incident, but that’s another story.

For a moment I seriously thought I’d reached that age we all dread, until I realised what had happened, and with a sigh of relief ventured out, seeing as the rain was stopping, to carry on what I was doing.

Very soon however,  the increasing discomfort  forced me to pack in and head home before a testicular form of trenchfoot set in, trenchcrutch I think it’s called.

“Have you got any leeks then ?”, she asked, as I entered the kitchen, walking like the geriatric incontinent I thought I’d become earlier.

“Leeks? Oh I’ve got leaks alright”, I said, “ Loads of ‘em, in that bloody shed roof !”.

P.S.
I was reminded of this incident the other day, when I spotted these in the local supermarket. Don't know how you would use them, but it's enough to bring tears to a man's eyes just thinking about it !

Away with the fairies.

That last post reminded me of a time in my life, as a young man, when I dabbled with religion. I was a latecomer, mentored by the local vicar right up to being fully confirmed, an adult yearner you could say.

My wife and I got to know the vicar quite well, and as our house was on his way to the church, he would often call for a sandwich and a cup of tea after work. I well remember one particular Sunday night, when as he was sat munching away, there was a knock at the door. It was a couple of policemen, enquiring about a local crime, so I invited them in for a cuppa as well. We all sat there, looking like a scene from Midsummer Murders, but I digress.

It didn’t last long however, this conversion. A growing despair at world suffering, the many hypocrisies of the Church and the need to constantly beg forgiveness from something that couldn't be seen or heard, eventually took its toll on my belief.

It left a hole, I must admit, and I sometimes envy those who have a belief system on which to hang their life, and ‘show them the way’,  but I’m now an ardent empiricist.  I can only believe information proven by observation or experimentation, and I’ve never observed or experienced anything to make me believe in any religious deity.

I came close once, in my early twenties. One very dark night, sat with a mate on a local beach discussing such things as you do, and with a few empty beer cans around us, we asked God for a sign to prove his existence. Lo and behold, there was a sudden flash of light out to sea in the night sky. We were dumbstruck at this manifestation, half expecting the next one to strike us dead for testing him. It was only after the second and third  recurrent flashes at regular intervals, that we realised it was the distant lighthouse of Flamborough head.

I'd like to live here.

The only other experience I have of anything approaching the supernatural, was when as a child, I saw a fairy, in the old sense of the term I must add. You may laugh, but it seemed very real at the time, and I can still remember every detail of the diminutive figure, sat in that blackcurrant bush.

Not a blackcurrant fairy, but near enough.

Of course, the figure had disappeared when I eventually persuaded my mother to come and have a look, but at least she could now justifiably say I was away with the fairies, which she often did.

Over the years I’ve reluctantly had to accept that it was a just figment of my childhood imagination, with the same disappointment that I discovered Father Christmas didn't exist. But you know what, more than five decades on from that day, I still look with expectation in every blackcurrant bush I see, just in case!

Jesus Christ! It sure was hot!

We went to see the latest stage performance of Jesus Christ Superstar last Sunday. The one with a spice girl in it, Mel B or is it C, I don’t know.

It must be nearly 40 years now since we last saw it on stage in London, as a young couple in beads, flares and patchouli oil, with not a care in the world. Mrs N and I had a couple of days there one hot summer when first married, and were totally entranced by all that was going on at that time. We returned home having spent every penny we had in the world.

So, would it live up to our expectations, after all we were there at the beginning.

Well, the music and singing was just as powerful as I remembered, with some brilliant guitar work from two young lads who were probably 20 years away from being born when it was first performed. The vibrancy and energy of the dance routines was just as good , and the special effects were ‘awesome’ as my grandkids would say.

I was a little disappointed with the modern day setting though, and  would have preferred it to have been in its original ‘biblical’, form. The background of last year’s city riots, wasn’t really a big enough political theme to portray an oppressed occupied nation, and Pontius Pilot as a judge just didn’t work, I think he was a bit more powerful a figure than that.

All in all, it was a great evening that whisked us back 40 years for a couple of hours, as we sang along to every tune.

Something happened that evening however, to reminded me of the need to live a good life if I wasn’t to end up in that burning inferno down below.

No, it wasn’t that I had some sort of  Damascene conversion during the concert, it was because the bloody heating on the bus was broken and couldn’t be turned off. We had to travel two and a half-hours, both there and back, set on gas mark 6, and emerged from the bus each time like basting turkeys. Talk about hot, if that’s a taste of what Hell's like, then I promise never to put another foot wrong dear lord.

Season of Fumes and Awful Noisiness

They were definitely biting at the bit the other morning down at the site, and off to a flying start just after I got there.

The favourite, ‘Lofty Len’ (he keeps pigeons), was the clear early leader down broad bean straight, making good use of the soft going. ‘Effing Phil’ (who swears alot) soon caught him, but pulled up limping near the cabbage patch, and was last seen inventing new swear words in his shed. ‘Cucumber Col’ (always grows the biggest) turned out to be a bit of a dark horse, and came from behind to the front of the pack. Not to be outdone however, the ‘Merry Tiller’ (he’s always so  happy !) made a  strong late run to be declared the overall winner. Unfortunately, failing a drugs test he was later stripped of the title, but at least we now know what those ‘exotic’ plants are in his polytunnel and why he's so bloody happy all the time.

Yes it’s that time of the year again folks, when the rotovators come out.

Whilst appreciating the effectiveness of these modern day machines, the noise and fumes emitted from them negate what allotmenteering’s all about for me, fresh air and quietness.

I prefer to dig by hand, which is just as well seeing as I don't own a rotovator, and find it quite satisfying turning the earth on an autumnal morning, at a gentle pace of about 30 groans per minute.

Occasionally stopping to survey the results of my sweated labour, I’ll look upon the scene with a sense of wonder.....just where do all those large stones keep coming from each year ? And whilst lamenting the lack of toilet facilities on the site, nip in the shed for a quick pee.

No, you can keep your white man’s machines as far as I'm concerned, I’m sticking to the old method as long as I can.

Now I must go and find that Merry Tiller, I need to see him about some, ahem, seeds.

Still learning.

“I am not ashamed to confess I am ignorant of what I do not know”. ( Marcus Tulius Cicero. 106 - 43 BC)

I have a limited knowledge of our native trees. I’m OK with Ashes, Oaks and Willows etc, but any further than that and I start to struggle.

That, and the fact that we now live on the edge of woodland, in which we regularly walk, prompted me to buy this book.

The book

It’s full of photographs of the leaves, bark, fruit, flowers, you name it, of trees, and positively teeming with information on how to identify them. The author couldn’t have made it any more idiot proof if he'd tried.

Well he didn’t allow for arboreally challenged idiots like me did he, because the first time I tried it on a particular tree, I failed miserably.

Mystery tree.

 The leaves of the one in question looked similar to Sweet Chestnut, well to me they did anyway, but were less serrated and the fruit that were forming didn’t have that spiky exterior they should have. Maybe they’ll form spikes later I thought.

Passing the tree often over the following months, I watched the fruit swelling but they didn’t get any spikier, not even a bristle. What I needed was to have a look inside one, but as they were all too high, I had to wait patiently for them to fall in autumn.

So you can imagine my dismay recently, to discover they’d all gone. Something or someone, obviously taller  and more agile than me, had stripped the tree completely bare of fruit.

Not to be beaten, I searched for ages around its base to see if the nifty nut-nicker had missed any, and as it’s near a public path, attracted strange looks from passers-by as they steered their children clear of the nutcase searching for nut-cases.

Eventually I was rewarded with a single specimen and, it still had its contents, phew ! So taking my trusty Swiss penknife, made in China, I tried slicing it open but was met with resistance just below the green outer surface. However, I had exposed just enough of the familiar surface of the shell inside, to tell me straight away what it was.

Public Announcement!!!.......Can all people knowledgeable about such things, please stop reading at this point , as I'm embarrassed enough as it is.

Yes I have to admit, that as many as I've gripped in the jaws of a nutcracker, or eaten along with their whips, that's the first time I' ve seen a walnut in its natural state !

Walnut

Me? a gardener ?

Today was a sad day for toms, the ones  in the greenhouse I mean, but I do include myself to some extent because it’s that time of year when the greenhouse had to be emptied of them.

Before

After

It only seems yesterday that I was sowing those tiny seeds, then pricking the seedlings out and keeping them warm, before placing them gently into their final growing positions. Such a contrast to today as I mercilessly lopped them off at the roots for the compost heap.

I grew one of my old favourites again, Gardener’s Delight, but I’m going to ask for my money back under the trades descriptions act, because I was far from delighted with the quantity this year. I think they'll have a good laugh at  me implying I'm a gardener though, no doubt.

The Alicantes in contrast, which I grew for the first time this year, were very prolific. They were disappointing in taste as fresh tomatoes I thought, but they made fantastic soup, I'll certainly be growing them again next year.

One variety that I regretfully didn't grow this year, was another of my old favourites, Shirley. Oh how I  missed those ripe, firm, pendulous handfuls, and I missed the tomatoes pretty much as well !

You may notice in the ‘After’ photo above, a solitary little runt  left in the corner of the cleared greenhouse. That is a plant I grew from the single seed of a supermarket bought tomato,  left on my plate one particularly reflective afternoon . I'd sat there ages marvelling at its dormant potential, and wondering if it would grow, and it did ! It's a commercially grown variety called Brioso, and although it struggled it surprisingly produced about a dozen decent  fruit.

It’s not all sadness however, as cleaning the greenhouse out will give me a chance to see where those bloody slugs and snails keep getting in. Having  re-erected it after the house move, I'm far from satisfied with its position, and seem to have chosen slug central for it, urgh !

Did I ever tell you I suffer from Molluscophobia, a condition not to be recommended for gardeners, so I'll be alright..

Me ? a gardener ? you must be joking!

A Happy Happening.

We bloggers can kid ourselves at times that the whole world out there is listening to our inane babblings, when in reality we know that’s just not so.

In all honesty I have  little idea who does actually read this blog, apart from the one, and  may I say very erudite soul, who kindly comments, as I’ve never mastered the art of monitoring it. The few other readers I did know about, have long since drifted to who knows where, because of the hiatus, and who can blame them.

I suppose blogging’s a bit like a musical performance in a way, and I use that analogy loosely as regards mine, in that if no one is listening you do wonder if it's worth continuing, regardless.

Well of course it is, I say, because though you may desire an external audience as a measure of your ability, it isn’t a necessity.  You're also your own audience, and can simply play for your own enjoyment if you wish.

So I’m making the following announcement to myself today, for the sheer joy of it, but if anyone else wants to bask in my pleasure for a while, then you're very welcome.

                                                  -------------------------------

At 7:00 a.m.today, the 1st of October 2012, a new human being came into this world, when our latest granddaughter was born.

Yes I'm proud to announce that we have another little Netalling in the family, who weighed in at a healthy bouncing 9lbs 2 ozs, in old money.

Welcome to the world little Charlotte, we have all long awaited you're arrival, especially you’re two big sisters Sophie and Emma.

I know they all look very much the same at this stage, as if they’ve just done a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, and yes I may be a little biased, but isn’t she adorable.

Our new little Netalling.

Curliness

I have an 8 year old grandson, he's a good lad but he is a very fussy eater.

Going back some years, there were few problems and he would eat a wide variety things. In fact he once swallowed a 20p coin whilst imitating his grandfather's magic trick!

But now, much to his mother's despair he will only eat a small number of food items, mostly consisting of reconstituted chicken in its various guises, such as "Chicken Nuggets" and "Chicken Goujons" (they're chicken nuggets for posh kids). Oh and baked beans.

As far as real vegetables are concerned, offer him anything remotely green on his plate, and you’d  think you had served him the severed head of John the Baptist !

Furthermore, and I know this is absurd, he even winces at that staple of most children’s diets today, chips !!!

But here's an interesting thing. Out there is a particularly strange food commodity, designed less for nutritional value than to make the producers lots of money, called “Curly Fries”. They're basically nothing more than thin curled chips as far as I can see, and my grandson loves them.

So you can take some thin chips, deep fry them, then add a final flurry of curliness and they suddenly become irresistible to him !

I wonder how they do it ? Is it something similar to how you can curl paper by pulling it against a knife edge, or perhaps they pass an electric current through them. Have they used genetically modified potatoes with a curly gene added? I just don’t know.

So would the novelty of curliness work with other things he isn't keen on, I asked myself ?

I know there are curly kales and cabbages, but I don't grow them, so this year I have produced just the thing to try out on him.........

                                              Curly Runner Beans.

Don't ask me why they've grown like this, I haven't clue. Maybe they were too close to the spring onions.

The Invisible Man

Had to take the car in for repair last Monday.  I’d booked an appointment the previous Thursday, but after giving the man at the reception desk my details, he tells me they don’t know anything about me.

“I did ring.....honest.... last Thursday “, I plead.

“Who took your call” ? he snapped.

Well it was a Monday morning, and there was a long queue of demanding people. I’ve been there myself many times, before I retired, so I forgave him.

“It was a girl, but  I didn’t ask her name”, I answered, quite calmly considering.

“Well whoever it was hasn’t booked you in”, he replied, with a thought bubble above his head saying, “You lying old git”.

Was I that insignificant that she’d forgot about me, just seconds after my phone call ?

I suppose she could've just been dumped by her boyfriend, in a text. Or, she’d just done a pregnancy test and it was positive. Or, perhaps she was working her notice and only had the next day left to work, so “bollocks to it”, she’d thought.

Luckily they had a spare slot and could fit me in that afternoon, he told me.

Hooray !!! I do exist and I do have significance in this world after all

“Thank you so much”, I gushed, “ and what’s your name again” ?   

“Charlie”, he replied,  I wasn’t making that mistake again.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Later that same day. and queuing at the same reception desk to pick up my keys, I'd stood back a little to give the bloke in front some privacy with his transaction.

It was obvious to anyone I was waiting in line, but that didn’t stop one young woman, viewing Ipod, walking straight past me to stand nearer the desk than I was.

No......she’s not going to....... is she ?. She must be a member of staff......surely.

But  when the man at reception asked who was next, she cheekily staked her claim, without even looking up.

Not bloody likely !!! I thought, saying quickly, “Sorry, but I think it’s my turn..........I was stood over there and you walked past me”.

There was an audible suction slurp as she slid her eyes from the Ipod, and trained them on me.

“Ooo I’m ever so sorry luv, I didn’t see you there”, she said, with a face like she'd just regurgitated stomach acid.

Yeah right ! I thought, in her speak.

So now I’m invisible as well as insignificant  am I !

High on a hill.

I've found I have a problem with one particular vegetable, and that's Broccoli.

I'll be the first to admit I’m not that successful at growing it. The pigeons devastate the young plants, then aphids get them later and even if they survive to maturity, they usually bolt.

But that's not the problem.

Broccoli also plays havoc with my digestive system, and produces enough wind to be a worry for those concerned about levels of methane getting into the atmosphere.

But that's not the problem either.

It raised its head the other day when Mrs Netall made a batch of broccoli soup, something  she does regularly, and which is usually delicious. Unfortunately on this one occasion it tasted really really strongly of broccoli, so much so that I thought the broccoli was off.

Now as all husband know, criticising their wife’s cooking is not for the faint hearted, but sometimes it has to be done and the best way is to use a little subtlety. I didn’t want to be blunt and say it was too strong, as she would have taken this as a slight on her culinary abilities and used me as target practice for her knife throwing skills.

So what could I say, and how could I say it ?

If the soup had been made of carrot, onion, leek, or any other of the thousands of vegetables that soup can be made of, there would have been absolutely no problem at all.

I could have simply said, “This soups delicious dear, but don’t you think it’s a little more carrot-y, (onion-y, leek-y) than  usual”, and hoped for the best.

But there lay my problem you see, because you just can’t do that with broccoli can you ! Have a go at saying broccoli-y, it sounds like you’re trying to bloody yodel!

So, all together now..."High on a hill there's a lonely goatherd...Broccoli-y, Broccoli-y, Broccoli-y-oo"

In the end I just kept quiet and ate it.

P.S.
As an after thought I think I'd better avoid celery and khorabi soup as well.

Getting a bit philosophical.

In Plato’s theory of Idealism, all objects have an idealised form. Take a table for example, there are many types of table but they all have similarities that make them tables, therefore it could be argued that there is a sort of  “tableness” belonging to them all.

So what about garden hoes, (as opposed to the one third of a Santa’s laugh type of hoes), do they have “hoeness” ? 

If they have, then it would seem that the gods have got the width bit wrong.

Because search as I may, all the ones I’ve found are  too narrow, and inadequate for my war of attrition against returning weeds in the recently cleared areas of the allotment.

Just days after clearing an area, the weeds, especially grass seedlings, are back and a 5 inch wide blade just isn’t big enough for the job.

So at the risk of upsetting all the Platonists out there I have created my own, with extra width, a sort of Superhoe you might say with a 20 inch blade. One push is now equal to 4 shoves with the old one.

Superhoe

Thankfully I have very light soil which lends itself to easy hoeing, and this is what the plot looked like last Friday after giving it a good going over with Superhoe.

The plot

The question is, does it still qualify as a hoe in the Platonic sense ? It has a handle and a blade, but it looks more like it should be used for cutting hay or something. 

If it doesn’t there’s not much I can do about it is there, so hey hoe I’ll just get on with the weeding then and not worry too much about it.

Doppleganger

I do admire all those brave bloggers out there who openly identify themselves on the internet, but unfortunately I’m not one of them. Being a shy person I hide behind a veil of anonymity on this blog, and all I dare give  is a shadowy image for a profile picture.

If you find this disappointing then I’m sorry, but I can assure you  I am real, and these are real happenings on and around a real allotment somewhere in North Yorkshire, England.

However, as a consolation I would like to offer a tantalising glimpse of what I actually look like, and a recent trip to the seaside town of Filey provided just that opportunity.

The day started with a walk through the formal gardens, that had endless bright but boring flower beds.

Then, like a shimmering oasis in a horticultural desert, I spotted an unusual flower bed on one of the grassed areas. Here, someone had created a miniature annual flower meadow full of impressionistic colour, that was a beauty to behold.

 

 

The insects thought so too.

We then strolled along the sea front and had a coffee in one of the cafes, whilst watching the  gulls harrying the holidaymakers. Alas our peace was shattered by a small boy at the next table, who much to his mother’s displeasure was jumping up and down on the said table and chucking his chips everywhere. So we moved on.

But what the hell has this got to do with what he looks like ? I hear you ask.

Well just round the next corner, we happened to pass a very famous television gardening personality who I think looks like a bit like me.

Was it Alan Tichmarsh, who’s waxwork model in Madame Tussauds has to have lipstick wiped off it twice a week? If only.

Or even that epitome of orgasmic organic fertility for some of the ladies, the mighty Monty Don ?

No kind people, it was neither of these, it was the wonderfully ebullient Christine Walkden, coming in the other direction.

Sorry I didn't get a picture, but she was off like a shot being pulled along by a very large dog.

The Battle Of Netall's Plot

“We shall fight amongst amongst the carrots, we shall fight in the cabbage patch and in the turnip beds, we shall fight on the paths, we shall never surrender.”

Before the Battle

 I don't wish to disparage Churchill’s famous speech in any way, but if he’d been an allotment holder, faced with the invasion of weeds that I have this year, he might well have said that.

As already mentioned, the house move and taming of a new garden has meant some neglect of the plot, and a few weeks back I decided to tackle it.

My plan for this year was to leave a large area fallow, and skim off the weeds as they appeared, but that idea soon went belly up as the more invasive weeds took hold, so I decided to strim it.

“It’s easy”, said the Son in law, as he handed me the machine he’d lent me, “ just press that and pull this, and Bob’s your uncle”.

I asked my  neighbour Bob if we were related when I got down to the plot, but he just looked blank and watched with mounting interest as I tackled the strimmer.

I followed the instructions religiously, checked petrol, set choke, and  pressed knob three times as instructed (stop giggling at the back there), but when I pulled the string, nothing happened. So I pulled again, more vigorously and prolonged this time, but still nothing. After about ten minutes of pulling and swearing, I gave up exhausted and sat on the bench.

All the while I could feel Bob’s eyes on me, and eventually he muttered, “If it’s owt like mine you’ve got to flick that red switch on’t top, to ON”.

What red switch ? The Son in Law never mentioned any red switch !  But he was right, on inspection there was one and it was in the OFF position !

Having now started at the first pull, it stalled straight away as it got hold of my trouser leg and worried it like a demented terrier, but eventually I was on my way.

After about an hour of attacking everything in sight I took stock, and although there was some effect it was not as much as I’d expected. There were weeds in that patch that would have withstood a flame thrower, never mind a strimmer.  The stalks of thistles stood laughing at my attempt to mow them down,  and I could see the couch grass re-growing as I stood there.

The enemy, Couch grass.

Also, I was covered from head to foot in flayed vegetable matter, and stinging from the pebble shrapnel being thrown up, that even had Bob ducking 20 yards away.

So I gave up and dug it all over instead, which took quite a few days.

The dead and dying

It was a long hard battle, but surveying the dead and dying enemy baking in the midday sun, I knew it was worth it in the end.

The Victor

A sad realisation.

Having a break from weeding the other day, my allotment neighbour Bob and I were discussing the quality of the manure he'd just had delivered, when our conversation was interrupted by another nearby plot holder sounding a bit irate.

It was Joan, who was brandishing her mobile phone and ranting something indecipherable, as she came briskly through my plot gate towards us. All I could make out was, “Bloody Farmers”!!!  She was reading what turned out to be a text from her daughter.

To put a bit flesh on the bones of this, fields of commercially grown potatoes surround our allotment site at the moment, and the Farmer has been spraying them regularly with a chemical against blight.

Joan it transpired, had found out what it was and after inhaling a lung full one day, which she swears has taken a decade off her life, had asked her daughter to look the substance up on the internet.

When she reached us, she read out a long list of ailments that you could expect to get if you came into contact with it, which was quite alarming. To a rising crescendo she finally told us in all seriousness that, “ it can also affect your fertility, you know “!

Now, at one stage in my life I would have been concerned about that, but seeing as all of us present were well past our sell by dates, with a combined age of about 190, it just seemed funny.

Bob sniggered, “Well that won’t bother any of us old buggers then, will it”. I sniggered along with him and Joan followed eventually as the penny dropped.

But as our laughter subsided, there was a bit of a silence for a while.

Then Joan replied sadly, “No, I don’t suppose it will anymore", and we all just sighed and went back to our weeding again.

  

Cotone-dis-aster

In my quest to tame our new garden, I decided to thin out an old Cotoneaster bush that had gone rampant and was restricting the light through the patio doors

It soon became clear that secateurs where inadequate for the job, and so I quickly progressed on to branch cutter, then  handsaw, finally  resorting to an electric fret-saw, such was the job.

As you can probably tell from this progression, in my enthusiasm, what had started as a simple thinning out exercise ended up being a full extraction.

However, I had an uneasy feeling whilst taking out this old bush, almost a premonition that something was going to happen. Was it going to get it’s own back on me for being so ruthless, another Karma experience. Also, doesn’t coton-e-aster rhyme with disaster, surely an omen? Yes I know some pronounce it coton-easter as in egg, but please allow me a little artistic licence.

All was going well until I came to deal with one particular branch that was thick and awkward, a bit like me according Mrs Netall, where the fret saw blade kept sticking. I found however, that if I used the fret-saw with one hand, not to be recommended by the way, whilst pressing down on the branch with the other, then the blade would cut freely.

There are times when you know you shouldn’t be doing something the way you are, and this was one of them.  Unexpectedly the branch suddenly gave, and as it travelled to the floor, I followed it, proving the laws of gravity.

“Oh Flipping Heck" (or words to that effect), I muttered as I fell, landing not on the nice soft lawn, oh no, but on the concrete patio to the side.

Let’s just say, I’m now of an age when I don’t bounce anymore and so fell quite heavily. Lying there, I had time to reflect on my stupidity, and wondered what I’d managed to chop off, but luckily the fret-saw had fallen away from me.

Eventually the revolving stars dissipated and I was about to shout for Mrs N to help me up, when I remembered  she was away for the day.

It was a bit of a struggle to get to my feet unaided admittedly, but at least her absence saved me from the usual ear bashing I get in similar circumstances, and those familiar words of hers “ So, just remind me what job you used to do”. Yes folks, I used to be a Health & Safety Manager !

Rambling On

I’m back, no excuses, so as Led Zeppelin would say let’s Ramble On !

Having moved house during the blog’s hiatus, I now have the responsibility for the upkeep of a fair sized garden as well as the allotment, and being more of a farmer than a gardener (as I explained here), it’s taking some coming to terms with.

I suppose you could call it a cottage garden, in that there are many beds of  “herbacious perennials”, as they say on Gardeners World, which I really don’t know much about. Here's a couple of shots from earlier in the year.

My inner control freak is telling me to just dig them up and replace them with something more manageable, like turf ! However I am resisting the urge, and just letting things be for this season, whilst I at least learn what things are.

As a consequence, the allotment, which has been a little neglected this past year, is getting a spring clean, in summer, to within an inch of its life. You can almost see the weeds cowering as I march down the plot with freshly sharpened hoe at the ready, passing my trusty leeks standing proudly to attention.     

As for the snails, that have been having a field day with the wet weather and my laziness of late,  weapons of molluscular destruction have had to be deployed, yes slug pellets. I’m reluctant to use them, but however many lettuce munchers I chuck into next doors plot, they never seem to diminish.

Talking to one of the old fellas, he tells me that they actually return home to the plot, “you know, like pigeons”, he said,  and that he’d actually done an experiment where he’d marked one with some nail varnish , took it a good distance from his plot, and within a day it had returned. 

Now that’s just weird, I mean, what the heck’s he doing with nail varnish down at the allotments !