On slowly turning into a pensioner….

This weekend we had nothing planned. Nothing. Not a smidge nor hint of a plan tempted me and my fella at clocking off time come Friday. The forecast was damp to say the least, and to be honest, I was pretty plum tuckered out. A week of forgetting to take my multivitamin, the reintroduction of chocolate to my diet and a total avoidance of the gym had left me feeling sluggish and tired. Urgh. I was prepared to settle in and hide from the weather, curled up on the couch with my left over chocolate and gallons of tea. Well part of me wanted that. The other half was dying to go for a run and binge of veggies and fresh air. Luckily my fella is the virtuous sort and arrived to pick me up at the station with a plan in formation. A healthy ourdoorsy sort of plan. The plan that involves an allotment.

not my image

I’m well aware that allotments are usually the past time of the old and grey. It’s something I’ve always wanted though. Ever since I saw how happy Barbara and Tom were, I too wanted the Good Life.  When I moved home after university my Dad cleared a space in the garden for me so I could have a vegetable plot. I promptly moved to Spain so his efforts were somewhat redundant unfortunately. When I returned from Spain my Mum bought me a Girls Guide to Grow Your Own, as she realised my ambition to get green fingers had not diminished. I was at home through the winter though, not quite the optimum season for planting, and as the months moved forward so did I, down to the Midlands. My dreams of my own plot where I could grow my own veg were put on hold, as things like a 9-5 and moving to a new town took precedence. I’d resigned myself that it was the sort of thing I could only really establish when I was older, settled; with a house and more time on my hands. Enter my fella. The man who makes all my dreams come true. (Apologies, I don’t know where that corniness came from).

So Saturday morning we woke up and made our way down to the allotment he’d spotted on his way to the station. We, according to the Twitter correspondence, would be meeting a bloke named Ken who could tell us more about having an allotment. Turns out, there wasn’t a lot to it. Ken rocked up, assigned us a plot, showed us where it was and then asked for the cash. A hefty annual fee of £12.50. No questions, no explanations, no nothing. That was it. Easy. Bit of advice on weedkilling and an offer to turn up the soil with the rotavator and job’s a good’un. So now we have an allotment.

The one main worry I have about the allotment is the sanity of my fella. A few weeks ago he saw red, raging at the crows in our back garden who were scoffing all the bird seed he’d put out. It started off ok, he’d just go to the patio doors and yell at them until they buggered off. As they began to adopt selective hearing and were unfazed by his shouts of anger and rage, his scare tactics began to escalate. He took to running through the garden to frighten them off and when this no longer worked he contemplated throwing missiles in their general direction.

Soon he was camped out in the back bedroom spying on them for hours,  like some sociopathic schoolboy intent on reaping revenge on the thing that plighted him. It wasn’t long before his hostility was rolled out to all crows, not just those in our garden. He yelled at fields of birds as we drove through the country, he woke me from an afternoon nap by screaming at cartoons on the TV “fuck off crows, you bastards”- the rage was concrete.

I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when we have seeds in the ground. He’s precious enough over shop bought bird-food, his protectiveness over the allotment and his disgust and hatred for the animals that threaten it will surely take on a whole new level. But I’ll take his protectiveness as a sign of love and devotion towards our soon to be flourishing garden. Aside from the potential crow rage, our feelings are nothing but rosy towards our impending allotment. For some people its a retirement they’ve been waiting for looking forward to all their life; for me and my fella it’s a treat for our twenty-twilight years. I am SO excited. I can’t wait to grow raspberries, for gin; and peas, for soup; and carrots, for stews; and damsons, for gin; and junipers- can you grow junipers? You know, for gin.


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