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