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 :-