The Sunflower Election.

I simply can’t make my mind up who to vote for in the general election, so I’ve come up with a solution. I’ve sown three sun flower seeds out of the wild bird seed bag, and whichever is the tallest on polling day will get my vote.

This method may not meet with the approval of any passing political activist, but given the antics of MP’s recently, it seems as good a way as any. If they can’t take it seriously then why should I ?

I’ve put Dave in some of the very best compost I had, I think he’d struggle in anything less.

Gordy looks as if he'll be the most demanding, and may turn out not to be sunflower after all, a thistle I suspect.

There's something else growing alongside Nick in his pot, I think I’ll call it Vince.

All I need now is some bull s--t to fertilise them all with.

Farmer Tom

The allotment 24th April 2010
I have a confession to make, I’m not really a very good gardener.

Don’t get me wrong, in all the many gardens we’ve owned, I’ve planted swathes of Alyssum, Marigolds and Petunias over the years, but never seem to have got it right. It always ends up looking like something the council has just done. In fact, this present house has an open plan front garden and we came home one day to find a young family having a picnic on the grass amongst the Busy Lizzies I’d just put in.

Growing vegetables on the other hand has always come as second nature to me, ever since watching The Good Life back in the 70’s, (Felicity Kendal had nothing to do with it). I remember my first attempt in a little flat we rented in Filey when we first got married, which was on the ground floor. I sowed some carrots into the tiny patch of soil round the back that never saw any sun at all. These poor spindly examples were a total failure and I had to resort to growing beansprouts in a jar in a cupboard instead.

As the years went on, the gardens we had grew bigger, and I have successfully grown vegetables in all of them whilst battling with the flowers.

Getting the allotment has brought this into focus somewhat, and these being new allotments it’s interesting to see how they are developing in this respect. All have their vegetable areas obviously, but the great majority have flowers planted, and even the occasional departed cat shrine (yes, she did), with a little ornamental shrub on top.

Mary's cat's grave.

However a staunch few are dedicated purely to the production of vegetables, and mine falls squarely into that category.

It has troubled me at times, and I never felt like a real green fingered gardener, maybe I lack the artistic gene I don’t know, but a book I am reading at the moment has solved the problem a little.

It is called A Handful of Earth by Barney Bardsley. The story of a lovely woman who sadly lost her husband at a relatively young age, and how she found solace through her garden and allotment.

In it she talks about there being two distinct sorts of people who grow things on allotments, the “Gardener” who grows flowers as well as carrots, and the “Farmer”, who’s regimented rows of vegetables make room for just the one flower, the cauliflower.

So there we have it, I am a “Farmer”, and it feels good to have an explanation after all this time, such a relief.

Where's Fred ?

Old Joe, Bob and myself were having a natter the other day on the site, when Mary came over looking a little sad.

“Can you bury a cat on your allotment ?” she asked, in all sincerity.

What a strange question I thought, did she go home that day and vent her anger on the poor thing ? (See last blog). Thankfully, she went on to give a somewhat teary eyed explanation.

Apparently her old cat was nearing his end and she was going to the vets to have him put down. But the cost of disposal was so expensive that she was thinking of other ways of getting rid of the body, and living in a flat with no garden limited her choices.

“Put it under yer rhubarb, it’ll grow like buggery”, was old Joe’s offering, ever the pragmatist but a little lacking in counselling skills.

“But I’m a bit worried a fox dig might him up again, I dread the thought”, she replied.

“Not if you bury it deep enough”, he said, “I remember when I buried Fred’s dog for him, in his back garden, he had a pacemaker”.

“What, the dog ?” she asked, without a hint of a smile.

“No…… Fred, and it wasn’t long I tell you before I buried him on top of t’dog”, he replied.

At this point I thought I’d entered a parallel universe, but things cleared a little as he went on to say that Fred’s widow, Ethel, had asked him to bury his ashes in an urn, near his beloved pet as he’d requested.

Eventually Ethel also died and as the family lived away, they wanted to take both parent’s ashes with them, and inter them nearer home. Of course they had Ethel’s, but where was Fred ? They knew he was in the garden somewhere, but there were no signs of a grave.

Luckily a neighbour heard of their plight and remembered old Joe digging in the garden that day, with poor Ethel by his side. Two and two were put together, and someone paid Joe a visit down at the allotments to explain their circumstance and ask the question.

“Oh he’s in t’rockery wi t’dog”, he told them to their relief, “But he’ll not be very happy being moved, he loved that animal you know”!

A woman's wrath.

Where else would you find Charlotte sharing a bed with the Duke of York, and that brazen hussy Desiree bunking up with Maris Piper (Billie's sister)? On my allotment of course, yes, all the spuds are now nestled comfortably into their beds.

Now for a little rant.

There I was working on the next beds, breaking them down into a fine tilth, what a lovely word don’t you think, when I noticed a large black car pull up in the parking area and disgorge an officious looking fellow. Seeing as I was the only one about, it wasn’t long before he had made his way down to my plot and stood at the gate. As I had my Ipod in, I thought I might get away with just ignoring him, but seeing him gesturing like a demented Orang Utan meant I had to acknowledge him. Care in the community just isn’t working I thought.

“I am the Councillor responsible for allotments and we have had a complaint about vegetable matter being deposited in the hedgerows, do you know anything about it ?” he boomed.

I tried hard to keep my composure. “ And your name is... ?” I enquired.

Realising he had broken the first rule of good customer relations, and that there is an election coming up soon, he replied “Parker…N.” of course I should have known.

Was that Nigel? Neil? or Nosy? I tried unsuccesfully to stifle the snigger.

“Are you enquiring as to whether I’m the culprit or the complainer”, I asked, genuinely confused, but it seemed to go straight over his head. “There’s a few old carrots and onions someone's dumped over there”, I went on, “But it’s hardly a hanging matter is it, they’ll rot down”.

“That’s not the point though, we can’t have people just dumping things everywhere now can we”, he pontificated.

“What about the parking on the road into the site, now there’s something worthwhile you should be investigating”, I protested. But to no avail, he was there to catch the carrot fly-tipper, and nothing would deter him.

By this time I was getting pretty wound up, when along came Mary, the lady who has the next plot, and before long she was getting the third degree, but not for long.

“I hope you’re not accusing me, my good man !” she said, with enough venom to send him on his way with a flea in his ear. “Pompous idiot” she added loud enough for him to hear as he went to have a look around the rest of the site.

Well she’s a nice quiet lady, and I was a little taken a back by her reaction. A while later, she had need to fetch some water from the communal tap, near to where little Hitler had parked his panzer.

Passing my plot on her return, she said, “You’re going to think I’m rather awful at what I’ve just done”.

“ I hope you haven’t let his tyres down Mary”, I said jokingly.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t do anything like that”, she replied, “But I did spit on his car though!!!”.

He must have really rattled her.

To Cleo

A young cat came into the garden this morning, skulking because he knew the territory wasn’t his. The owner was away on a long journey you see, so he could linger for a while and roll in the sun. He didn’t see me watching and being reminded of the old girl, who once frolicked and chased butterflies on that same grass when she was young.

He was lucky she wasn’t there. Cleo was her name, and though small she would have soon let him know of her displeasure, and with flailing claws sent him on his way. Then, licking imagined wounds, and with ruffled pride she would have settled back down again in the sun to fight another day. Until she lost the final battle that took her from us, forever.

He knew none of this, and didn’t care that it had once belonged to another, though he was very wary and could smell the void. Half expecting to be harangued at any moment he constantly cast an eye for the owner, or was it that he sensed her watching from afar.

Still now after all these years, my heart hangs heavy, and tearfully I sit here drawn back to her memory. From that timid little kitten, that hid behind the furniture when she first came to us, she grew into a loving pet that gave us many years of pleasure and fun. The children adored her, and grew up with her always being there, to chase, cuddle and tease with a ball of wool.

Eventually she tired of playing and became the sedate old lady that just wanted to curl up on a knee, and be stroked. She lived long enough to meet and be loved by our grandchildren, and sparked the desire for them to have their own pets. You want to warn them not to, to protect them from the day they’ll have their own hearts broken, but that’s impossible.

After all would I have all those sweet memories erased, to save me from these tears? No I wouldn’t, they are too precious.

Thank you Cleo.

Vive l'oignon.

Today, Ladies and Gentlemen, and any other sentient creature that may care to drop in, I would like to announce that the first crops have gone in.

Approximately 350 onion sets, of three different varieties, are now nestled into a couple of beds waiting for the birds to pull them up again. Actually I got away with it last year, but being ever the pessimist I’m sure it’ll happen this year.

The theory goes that the little blighters think they’re worms peeping up through the soil, and pull them up in the hope of a free snack. You’d think they’d cotton on after the first few and leave the rest alone wouldn’t you, but they don’t, so I suspect there’s also an element of avian vandalism involved, or even revenge.

When I gave my wife the good news, a concerned expression crept across her face.

“And how many have you put in this year ?”, she asked, in a tone not dissimilar to that used when asking how many pints I’ve had, on my return from the pub.

“Err, only about 300”, I replied, anticipating where she was coming from. I thought leaving the odd 50 off would somehow make it sound better, it didn’t.

“So we’ll have enough to last us about three bloody years then, and that’s after we’ve used the other 200 still hung up in the garage from last year”, she said. She’s very good at mental arithmetic you see.

Of course she’s right, I did over do it last year and resolved to aim for quality rather than quantity this year on the plot. But onions are just so easy to grow, you just plonk ‘em in, replant them once or twice after the birds have been round and “Voila”! you could supply a small french town, if you had a bike and a beret.

Now, what did I do with.....?

I had another walk down to the plot yesterday, across the green fields with birds singing all around, and would have arrived full of the joys of spring, if it hadn’t still been officially winter.

I went over to one of the other bloke’s plots to have a natter, who’s about the same age as me. After comparing notes on carrot fly and potato blight for a while, we got on to medical matters as people of our age tend to do sometimes.

When asked what tablets I was taking for the blood pressure, I told him it was the ones that make you pee a lot.

“Oh Bendroflouazide” he replied with a knowing air of wisdom to his voice, then added with a large hint of disdain, “But everybody’s on them though, aren’t they………owt else?”

“Statins”, I replied. Who was I to disappoint him.

“Ah, now my cholesterol's OK, you see”, he informed me, with an emphasis on the “my”, and a smug smile on his face.

I went on regardless, “And one of those ACE inhibitors as well, but can’t quite remember its name”, just to amuse him further.

With the same authoritarian tone, that by now made me want to piss on his cauliflowers the next time the Bendroflouazide kicks in, he said, “That’s one of the side effects of ACE inhibitors you know”.

“What is?” I asked tersely, a bit perplexed.

“Short term memory loss, I bet it’s Perindopril you're on”, he replied. Admittedly, the name did sound familiar.

Feeling a bit decrepit by now, I bid him farewell and wandered back to my plot with the intention of having a sandwich and a cup of tea from the flask.

Trouble was, I had forgotten to bring the damned bag with them in, hadn’t I!!!