Divorce !

Well that got your attention didn’t it.


It’s that time of year again when everything seems to come all at once doesn’t it. I know I sound a bit ungrateful but I’ve got potatoes coming out of my ears, cabbages as big as footballs and enough peas to fill a swimming pool, not that I ever did that when I went swimming, disgusting behaviour.

The trouble is, in this season with this weather we don’t have that many ‘Hot Dinners’ as we call them, so it’s a struggle to use up vegetables from the plot. Meals are mainly salady type things or pizzas so I’m very thankful for the tomato crop in the green house, and the occasional curry uses some of the onions up, but the meat and two veg type meals just don’t appeal at the moment.

Last year we gave lots away to family and friends, but you knew they’d had enough when you heard the words, “Oh, another cabbage, thankyou so much”, and half expected it to hit you on the back of the head when you turned to walk away

Then we froze loads, eventually filling a second freezer that we’d invested in to bursting point and Mrs N made lots of cornish pasties that used up quite a bit, which also went in. She became so expert in the art of freezing, that I’m sure if we’re ever stuck for money, she could turn to cryogenics to make a living, if you’ll excuse the pun.

So the other day, it was time to turf out the vegetable freezer to clean it and prepare for this year’s onslaught and I was pleased to see most of the vegetables had been used up over the winter. Admittedly there were some left overs, for example a bag of experimental blanched potatoes that I don’t think we will bother with again, and some forgotten baby carrots that now resembled the mummified fingers of a venerated saint.

However, there were absolutely loads and loads of runner beans left over, and the sight of them appearing from the ice brought back vivid memories of last year. There I would be, returning with yet another carrier bag full, and that forlorn look would creep across her face as she saw me struggling up the drive with them. The neighbours were sick to death of them, we had frozen enough to supply Morrisons, and still they kept coming. What were we to do.

“Can’t we can get a few more in the freezer?”, I tentatively asked.

“What do you think it is, a bloody Tardis”, she replied, “The things full, and besides we’ll never use them in a million years”.

Well we would if it was a Tardis, I thought, you know time travel and all that, but thought it best to keep such flippancy to myself under the circumstances.

So here we were a year on, looking at all those runner beans, and Mrs N with a smug ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

Reluctant to throw them away, I suggested we could make a curry or soup with them, perhaps even brew some runner bean wine?

Her reply I’m afraid, is quite unprintable here, but included something about a divorce court if I bring as many home this year, and that bag of frozen beans could have done me quite a bit of damage if I hadn’t ducked in time.

Karma for Dummies

I was sat at the computer the other day having a nice cup of tea, and reflecting on the irony of allotmenteers being in so much conflict with nature, as you do. After all, are we not the first to appreciate the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and yet wage a constant war with creatures great and small in an effort to protect the fruits of our labour.

Take butterflies for example. Is it not a sheer joy to see a Peacock dancing about in a light summer breeze, or a Red Admiral lazing in the afternoon sun. Yet if I see a Cabbage White hovering near my brassicas, it instantly becomes an angel of the Devil, to be eradicated at all costs.

I don’t take any delight in killing things, and in reality chase butterflies away hoping they’ll hop over the fence onto my neighbour Jeff’s cabbages instead. After all you have to think about those Buddhist principles of not harming living creatures, because they may be the reincarnated souls of the dead. That big fat slug you’ve just squashed that was munching on your lettuces, might have been someone’s grandad once upon a time!

There’s also the Buddhist concept of Karma to take into consideration as well, something about a person’s ‘bad actions’ creating bad results for that individual. Could all this hostility towards nature be having a negative effect on me, I wondered? Is this why I keep getting scab on my spuds?

This one looked a bit more complicated however. I mean if I kill a slug eating a lettuce, it’s bad for the slug but good for the lettuce, right ?

Wanting to know more about Karma I looked it up on Wikipedia, but it started going on about ‘cause and effect’ and ‘volitional’ activities. My eyes started to glaze over and I got even more confused.

Then a Bluebottle with a chainsaw flew in through the open window, to remind me which insect I definitely don’t like, and why I’ll never be on the Dalai Lama’s Christmas card list. I tried hard to ignore it for a while, but the incessant buzzing eventually raised my blood pressure enough for me to have to take some action.

Having developed my own strategy for dealing with flies over the years, I picked up the A4 pad at the side of me and waited for it to land somewhere. I would then bring the said pad down quickly, but just far enough away from the beast, to cause it to take off and fly into the path of the descending weapon of execution. That way you get a clean kill and avoid spreading fly innards everywhere.

This normally works, but here I was dealing with no ordinary fly, I think it was the reincarnated soul of a Kamikaze pilot on speed, and it buzzed around the room with not the slightest intention of landing for the next 24 hours it seemed. It soon became obvious that my usual method would be useless and that I’d have to go nuclear, so I went for the fly spray instead.

Having eventually found it amongst the multitude of other sprays under the kitchen sink, I returned to the room, but the buzzing had stopped. The little bugger had taken advantage of my absence to hide and have a rest. I was sure I could hear it laughing at me but couldn’t see it anywhere.

Then, without warning, it flew straight at me from the direction of the window, at about 12 o’clock with the full sun behind it to dazzle me, and went for my head.

Luckily, I managed to get a shot in before diving for cover behind the filing cabinet, and from the safety of my bunker watched it flying around the room for quite a while, apparently unaffected, as it hunted for me. In fact it seemed to speed up, so much so that it passed through the sound barrier causing a sonic bang. Or was that me banging my head on the damned filing cabinet drawer I’d left open, as it went for me again?

Eventually after about 5 minutes its engines began to falter, and it had to make a spluttering emergency landing on the windowsill. Though it made several unsuccessful attempts to take off again, its time was obviously up.

Next, it did a very strange thing by flipping over onto its back and doing a break dance. I watched mesmerised as it spun and somersaulted in a macabre dance of death, that lasted about a minute, before suddenly stopping. Wondering if it was now dead, I waited a short while before prodding it with a pen.

It then did no more than spring back to life as if miraculously resurrected, and soared high into the air. Before finally, in what I can only take as a desperate act of revenge, it took one last gasp and fell to earth, straight into my bloody tea.

Ah ! now that must be what they mean by Karma then.

Beware of the Gnome

There’s a new Poundland recently opened in town, where Woolworths used to be, and every time we passed it Mrs Netall would suggest we go in, but I obstinately refused.

Being a true Yorkshireman, I’m the first to appreciate a bargain, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go in the place. Call me a snob if you like, but I wasn’t getting run over by one of those mobility scooters, or jostling with Frank Gallagher and his mates in the queue for anything.

Trouble is, I needed a small watering can for my seedlings, because she’s getting fed up of not being able to find her best gravy jug and giving me grief about it. Well we looked all over town but the prices were just so extortionate, I only wanted to water the things for heavens sake, not serve them champagne.

“They might have one in there”, she said, pointing to that dreaded place again as we passed, “They do have a gardening section you know”.

Now that was news to me, and my ears pricked up like a Jack Russel’s at the sound of the word “rats”. I had never thought that they sold gardening things, but then again I suppose even Frank might need some compost for his ‘special’ plants.

So taking a deep breath and casting all caution to the wind I crossed over the border, from Ingerland into Poundland.

Well I must say what a pleasant surprise I got, I didn’t get frisked on the way in, there was nobody selling heroin behind the checkouts, and there were normal people in there buying things.

There were everyday products on sale too with labels I recognised, like the cleaning things Mrs N keeps under the kitchen sink. I don’t know what she does with them, but I dare say if you mixed one or two together you could make a hell of a bang.

In fact I think there is an example of every cleaning thing known to man under there, and wonder if she ought to register with the Environmental Health people in case there’s ever a spillage.

Soon I was pointing out fantastic bargains on shelves to her, and saying things like “Look love, twelve coat hangers, only a quid”, and, “Wow, two hundred cotton buds, would you believe it”. But she just gave me one of those looks that said, ‘Don’t be so stupid, since when did you last use a coat hanger or a cotton bud’.

After passing some very dubious things in the entertainment section, such as the plastic bums and t*ts that were for sale, great for the next barbecue down a the site, I found the gardening products and it was like being a kid in a sweet shop who’s just found a fiver.

Eventually, I ferreted out just what I was looking for, a lovely little plastic one with a long spout, perfect for the job and in sunshine yellow too.

“Well, are you going to buy it then ?”, she asked, after watching me examining it for a while.

“I would if I could find out how much it is”, I replied, forgetting where I was for a moment. I looked underneath, inside, and even down the spout for the price label but couldn’t find one.

“Erm, I think there may be a clue in the name of the shop”, she said, pointing to the large sign just above my head.


I got a little carried away however, and started buying stuff that I didn’t really need but couldn’t resist.

I ended up with some blood fish and bone fertiliser, old John swears by it, a ball of string because you can never have enough string on an allotment, and two garden gnomes called Forest Fred and Fran.

Here’s Fran with her welcome sign, so she’s going near the gate.


And here’s Fred , he’s going next to my shed that was burgled recently!

Beans on toast.

Every Tuesday Mrs Netall and I venture into town to do a bit of shopping and pay our regular visit to the library. Not that I’m a big reader, its just that the diuretic tablets I have to take every morning start to kick in by the time we are passing the place, and there’s a toilet in there.

I’m not a big lover of shopping either, and usually end up forlornly waiting outside with tied up dogs, while she’s inside buying mysterious things. But if I’m patient and behave myself, she rewards me with a late breakfast of beans on toast and a mug of coffee at our favourite café on route.

Of course I could have beans on toast anytime at home, made with the freshest of home baked bread, real butter and only the best beans money can buy. But there’s something about our little treat that defies all culinary logic, because it shouldn’t but it does, taste delicious.

Is it the thin sliced white bread I ask myself, toasted by the plumber with his blow torch, who’s in the back fixing the sink. The quality varies, but sometimes it can be a work of art with a patch of white that radiates out through all shades of brown to a blackened perimeter. I once had a piece with the face of Christ clearly visible on it, could it have been that the Holy Toast was among us that day!

Or is it the beans ? Kept warm for at least 4 hours in a container on the hot plate, until they can only be served up with a cake slice. Sometimes they have peas on the menu, in a container next to the beans, and if you’re lucky you get some of those as well. It all adds colour to the appearance you see, and I’d give the counter staff 5.9 for artistic merit if it was a competition.

Then there’s the butter to consider, or whatever it is they put on the toast, its yellow anyway. Applied so thick I’m sure they’re doing a deal with the local heart surgeon, who’s trying to meet his government targets.

Obviously there’s a bricklayer working in the back with the plumber, who lends them a trowel to spread it on with, and I have been known to scrape off the un-melted excess and take it home in a serviette to grease the chain on my bike.

It’s not cheap mind, and they’ve just put the prices up! In fact the last time we were in I overheard an old lady saying to her friend, that if her mother were still alive today, she’d die if she saw those prices.

What the hell has all this got to do with allotments, I hear you ask.

Sod all really, so here are some gratuitous photographs of strawberries I picked today to compensate.


This bonzer weighed in at a full 2 ounces!

Thieves, Hares and the Microchip.

What a combination eh! It all happens down at our allotments.

We’ve had some thefts recently from quite a few sheds on the site, which was something of a double injustice for some of us. The old timers in their wisdom, advised us when we first got our plots that it was a waste of time putting a lock on your shed, because any potential thief would think there was something valuable inside and break in. Well so much for that theory, all the locked ones were left completely untouched !

I still haven’t worked out if anything was taken from mine as it’s a total tip, in fact I think the burglar opened the door, took one look inside and decided it was unsafe to venture any further.

Whilst a few of us were stood discussing what we would do with the intruder, if caught, and who would donate the actual cucumber, Mary arrived over at her plot.

Some moments later however, we heard her let out a blood curdling scream. Concerned, we looked over and could see her manically waving her arms about, and shooing something away.

“What’s up wi’ her”, said Old John “Has she found that burglar hiding in t'gooseberry bushes or summat?”

“It’s a Hare”, she cried, and we all cheered as she chased the thing from her plot, then down the central path towards us brandishing a cane. Knowing she is a retired teacher, I thought for a moment that she was going to punish all of us for laughing.

When I say chased, the animal didn’t look to be in too much of a hurry and kept stopping to let her catch up. Eventually it got fed up of waiting, sauntered off and hid under one of the parked cars.

“The damn thing was eating my lettuces, it’s no good I’ll have to get a gate”, she said as she reached where we were gathered, and seeing the chance of a natter gave up the pursuit.

Talking of gates, before long she was telling us about her daughter, who was away in Italy attending a wedding.

Afterwards she was then travelling the length and breadth of the country, alone, in a 14 year old Ford Fiesta! But wait, that wasn’t the interesting bit.

She went on to say that the wedding was of her daughter’s best friend to a young man whose father had, in Mary’s words, “invented the microchip”.

“ Blimey, that’ll be some wedding, I bet he’s not far behind Bill Gates financially”, I commented, genuinely impressed.

“ Bill Gates?” she asked, frowning and looking at me as if I was an idiot.

“That computer billionaire”, I replied.

“What’s it got to do with computers?” she went on.

“You know, microchips for computers”.

“Oh no…..”, she said chuckling, “not those…… the ones you put in the microwave from McCains…....his dad used to work there”.

Hmmm, I do sometimes wonder if she’s winding us up you know !

Dear Hosepipe

Dear Hosepipe,

Please forgive me for completely forgetting about you since last year.

Throughout those long winter months, there you hung limp and forlorn on the back fence, exposed to the vagaries of wind and weather, heartlessly unloved, when you should have been safely hibernating somewhere inside.
Even at the start of the growing season, I dispensed with the need for your undying services and used that pampered plastic watering can that’s kept in the shed, on my newly sown seeds.

For weeks and weeks I cast all cares to the wind and gambled on the weather to keep things watered. Sure enough, those ever grey leaden skies delivered the goods as regular as clockwork.

Then, as we got further into the growing season, the heavens began to fail, and despite my naked midnight rain-dances around the water butt, the allotment became as dry as a dead dingo’s donger, as they say in some parts of the world.

Imagine my horror that day, to find all the vegetables gasping like lost souls in the Sahara Desert. I’ll never forget those terrible scenes of baby carrots and beetroot begging for water.

Hurriedly I plugged you in and rolled you out, then expected you to perform immediately without question, before I got reported to the RSPCV.

So I can’t really blame you for springing that leak, but did it have to be at the delivery end just as I turned the nozzle on, and leave me pi**ing wet through for the rest of the day.

P.S.
I was surprised how much of the stuff you could actually dispense in those few seconds that I spluttered for breath, with the freezing deluge that hit me in the face. You certainly made your point, I’ll put you away next winter.

Tom Wetall.

The sun has got his hat on.

I don’t do hats, they just do not suit me. I have a theory that either my ears are too near the top of my head, or they make them too deep. Whichever, the brim always ends up resting on my ears, bending them over slightly and making me look a right prat.


Because of this, having the allotment has brought me up against something of a dilemma, sunburn. There is no shade whatsoever down there so I’m totally dependent on sun cream, and I hate it. After an application it’s not long before I resemble one of those old sticky flypapers, with greenfly all over my face.

And how the hell do you get it on to your scalp? It’s easy for all you follically challenged people out there, but not being bald does have its disadvantages you know. Putting it on my hair spoils that carefully coiffured look that I’m renown for, it’s called a short back and sides in the trade. So there I sit on the plot enviously watching all the others looking so natural and cool in their hats, while I bake like a sun dried tomato.

Whilst in town last week I decided to bring matters to a head, so to speak, and find one that I can wear and not scare the grandchildren.

The first I tried was the standard flat cap, as they were giving away mufflers and live whippets with them, and I’m always up for a bargain. It was similar to the one my father used to wear when he was alive, and when I looked in the mirror I jumped back, there he was staring back at me.

Mrs Netall tried her hardest not to laugh, but failed, “Try a baseball cap”, she suggested.

Now as far as I‘m concerned there should be a law brought in immediately to stop men over a certain age from wearing them. So not exactly taking the suggestion seriously, I put one on backwards and pretended I was riding a skateboard. It didn’t stay on my head very long, when she hit me with her handbag and told me to stop embarrassing her.

At one point I picked up one of those Russian fur hats. Apparently it's called a Ushanka, which could be rhyming slang for what I would look like in it I suppose, and translates to ‘Ear Flap’ hat. Well that would take care of my particular problem I thought, but soon put it down again when I saw her handbag hand twitching.

Lastly in desperation, I tried on a kind of bush hat in blue denim, that didn’t look too ridiculous I thought, even though it had a brim wide enough to shade a glass of Fosters, and was only missing the corks on strings.

“ But… I look like Crocodile Dundee”, I protested to no avail, as she dragged me off to pay for it.

So on the plot the first day of wearing it, I was feeling a little bit self-conscious but not too bad, until Old John came along that is. He was on his way to the water tap, and I was sure I could hear him whistling ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport’, as he approached my plot.

Pausing at the gate, he looked over to where I was doing some weeding.

“Summat’s been at yer cabbages I see”, he observed.

“Yes”, I said, “ I haven’t a clue what’s doing it”

“It’s them Koala Bears you know…. little buggers they are”, he replied, and with a toothless grin ambled off with his watering can.