If you were wondering how you can tell the precise moment when you finally become officially middle aged, I can now reveal all. I just became chairman of our village’s Allotment Association. Please send my pipe and slippers immediately. After languishing on a waiting list that was even slower that the “Please hold – all our operators are busy” call waiting system of British Gas, we finally managed to get ourselves an allotment late in 2010. Our initial excitement was tempered somewhat when we went to the site, found the sign for our plot and thought it had been replaced by a reasonably large rainforest. Unfortunately, ill health meant Mrs. G wasn’t able to help as much through the winter as she would have liked (or that’s what she said, anyway) so I spent many a damp hour up there hopelessly poking frozen or waterlogged ground with a fork, and trying to remember my bearings and which direction the sun was in, so I could find my way out afterwards. In the early spring, I had...
Does what is says on the tin. Only its a blog. Not a tin. Confused yet? Me too. (twitter = @grumpyf1)