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.

A Thorny Tale.

The back lane.


I was given an unwanted bike by a friend the other week, so that I can do my bit for the environment and not go to the allotment in the car.

I’m not sure if this was a kind gesture on his behalf, or a practical joke!

Having not ridden one for years, just getting on the bloody thing nearly put me in hospital. I mean, I used to be able to mount a bike like a professional circus performer, but now it left me convinced I needed a hip replacement, such was the pain.

I waited for a day that was not too windy for my first attempt, after all I didn’t want to burden the local coronary unit unduly, and clocked myself setting off. It takes about 5 minutes in the car and 35 minutes walking, so I wanted to compare times.

The journey there went well and I made good progress, just over 13 minutes from our door to the allotment gate. I must say, these new gear arrangements are terrific, I’m only used to the old three gear Sturmey Archer ones. I actually got all the way up and over the old railway bridge without getting off once, but my legs were going round like a kiddie's windmill in a force ten gale, doing about 20 revolutions for every yard travelled.

My return journey was a bit more problematic unfortunately, starting with the scaring of a couple of walkers half to death, as I careered towards them on the narrow back lane. I made a mental note to adjust the brakes when I got home.

Glancing back, I could see they didn’t look too pleased trying to get themselves out that hawthorn bush. I couldn’t help noticing though, how wonderful the blossom looked on it at this time of year, and was so taken with the scene that I didn’t see the car hurtling towards me.

The back lane, as can be seen in the photo above taken earlier this year, is only one vehicle wide at best with a muddy verge and hedges of mostly hawthorn, along both sides. It’s an enchanting place with a real sense of spirituality and natural beauty about it, but now just wasn’t the time to appreciate such qualities.

By the time I did notice the car, just before the impending impact, I had to make a quick decision, do I play a game of chicken and force him on to the verge or do I get on to it. Soon I could see the whites of his eyes, and the unblinking determined look on his face, so a re-assessment of the situation suggested that it was me who got out of the way.

Risking further orthopaedic surgery I dismounted temporarily until he’d passed, but on resuming my journey noticed a distinct drop in the bike’s performance and the sound of rubber on metal. Looking down, I was horrified to see that the front tyre was as flat as a fart, as we say in Yorkshire!

I don’t know why, but we say it at every opportunity, whether its about the merits of X Factor singers or a badly pulled pint of beer that hasn’t got the obligatory inch of froth on top.

So there I was, punctured on my maiden voyage, and feeling a little deflated in more sense than one. Further investigation confirmed it to be a great big thorn from the hedge that had done the damage, similar to those the walkers had been pulling out of their backs and arms earlier, who by now were strutting passed me with smug smiles. There was nothing else left for it, but to push the damn thing all the way home.

“So, how long did it take you then?” she asked, when I got in the house.

“13 minutes there and 35 back…..” I replied panting, “ I’ll explain later, when I get my breath back”.

The Christening

Following on from the last post.

Family and friends gathered at the old village church with intermittent sun highlighting Forget- me-nots and Bluebells in the church grounds, and a threat of rain in the clouds above.


The glum regular parishioners eyed our merry group with some suspicion as we entered the church, until they spotted the beautiful Emma in all her christening finery to melt their hearts and remind them there was a baptism that day, some even smiled.

In true Church of England style, the building was freezing, and our breaths “like pious incense rose”, as the poem says. I know they are down to their last £500 million at the moment, but you'd have thought they’d put the heating on for half an hour for us hypocritical non-regulars, we are just not used to it. After all, some of these poor people should have still been in bed nursing a hangover from Saturday night.

The service went without any hitches, and Emma behaved impeccably throughout, until the vicar poured the water on her head. She didn’t cry however, but gave him a look that was a mixture of bewilderment and indignation, and if she could speak I’m sure she would have been saying, “What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?”

Of course it was down to Grandad to provide the entertainment, and he duly obliged.

At the end of the service, the Vicar made his way down the aisle shaking hands with everybody in the congregation. As he got to me he held out his hand and said “Pleased to meet you”. A little strange I thought, but how nice, so I warmly shook his hand and repeated “Pleased to meet you” back to him. He smiled, but looked a bit perplexed.

Back at the family gathering I noticed a small group, including my daughter, laughing quite loudly and looking in my direction, so I sidled over to see what the joke was.

“You know when you shook the vicar’s hand……what did you say to him”? She asked.

“Pleased to meet you”, I said, “like he said to me”.

“No he didn’t”, she told me, laughing even louder by now, “he was saying……. Peace Be With You”.

Ooops.

A very special occasion.

I didn't go to the allotment last Sunday due to a very special occasion, the christening of our 7 month old grand-daughter, Emma.

If one day you read this Emma, thankyou for making us the proudest of grandparents ever.

"May the strength of the wind and the light of the sun,
The softness of the rain and the mystery of the moon
Reach you and fill you.
May beauty delight you and happiness uplift you,
May wonder fulfil you and love surround you.
May your step be steady and your arm be strong,
May your heart be peaceful and your word be true.
May you seek to learn, may you learn to live,
May you live to love, and may you love - always."
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