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Losing the plot at the allotment

I have a dream.

A dream where the green fingered come together to make something beautiful (assuming the slugs don’t get it first).

There may only be 16 plots in our humble village allotment site, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be a thing of loveliness, does it? An oasis of tranquillity, carefully tilled soil, green shoots of promise, and the occasional cheery Robin perched on a frosty spade handle for effect.

So keen are the keepers of the sacred scrolls that even sheds are not allowed to blight this patch of serene calmness, split only by the occasional shriek of Mrs G putting her hand on a Slow Worm in the long grass.

True, the bountiful fruitfulness, and plentiful... er... vegetableiness does attract some local deer who wander in from time to time, no doubt impressed by the neatness and the fact that some kindly humans have generously provided them with a neatly arranged salad bar.

In an attempt to politely deter them from scoffing the carefully grown and tended produce, we were the first to reluctantly enclose our plot with some slender rough timber poles and fine mesh netting. Whilst this did feel rather like diverting an angry wasp into your friend’s pint with a swift flick of a beer mat, it did do the trick. Slowly, reluctantly, others followed suit.

Plot by plot, the poles got a little bit sturdier, the netting a bit heavier and the general sense of well-ordered efficiency continued to burgeon, but with a hint of disquiet slowly creeping in, like spotting a butterfly on your cabbages, or a dandelion lurking in the cricket-pitch perfect grass paths.

With the icy grip of winter limiting the time available to go and fret about how straight the edges of the beds are, or if you split the rhubarb crown a bit early, the dedicated allotmenteer begins the process of developing next year’s layout on the sort of graph paper normally reserved for architects.

A trip up to the plot recently revealed a shocking escalation in the fencing proliferation. A “newbie” has upped the stakes dramatically. With timber poles that BT would happily hang phone wires on, and metal chicken wire that will require the deer to go decidedly ‘Rambo’ to get through, their plot now sits like some kind of exercise yard for incarcerated criminal fruit & veg.

It wouldn’t shock me to see some leeks smoking fags in one corner, whilst glaring across the bed at the sprouts threateningly.

The next logical step in the plot cold war must surely be some razor wire along the top edge of the fence, and a couple of turrets with spotlights on, which I’m guessing will seriously freak out the tabby from the house next door.

Possibly armed guards, with night vision goggles, ready to take down anything that moves nearby (which will seriously affect the usefulness of dangling old CDs on bits of string to frighten off birds) will follow.

This isn’t gardening. This is war!

Or I could be overreacting..?

This post first appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column, in the North West Evening Mail, on the 12th of December 2014. You can view the edited version used by the paper on their website here

About 30 words were edited out this time, including the bit featuring next door's tabby and the old CDs on string section.

My usual wintry reservations about allotment ownership are growing nicely - we're either busy at the weekend, or on the odd occasions we aren't it's binning it down or frozen solid, both of which suck the enjoyment out of digging somewhat. I'm fully expecting to arrive at spring with only half the plot tidied up and dug over. Again.

Amazingly, this blog reached 5 years of age this week. You'd have thought by now that I'd have some vague idea of what I was doing, but I expect you'll have gathered by now that that clearly isn't the case. Thanks for reading though - the numbers suggest that someone still is!

(Sticking with the retro vibe, currently listening to the Jonnie Walker's "Sounds of the 70's" show on BBC Radio 2. I will confess to having been in existence for all of that decade.)

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