Tom and Barbara are to blame!

01/05/2005

Tom and Barbara are to blame. Like many men watching The Good Life I envied Tom throwing his job up and turning his garden into a vegetable plot (and of course I also fell in love with Felicity Kendall).  I’d always quite fancied the idea of telling everyone how much tastier carrots were eaten straight from the garden.

 

This rosy vision of self-sufficiency saw me put my name down for an allotment with the local Parish Council last Autumn after my wife suggested it to me as a way of keeping fit.  Before agreeing to my wife’s suggestion, I quickly checked that the local allotment site had no obviously untended plots waiting for a new tenant. 

 

Unsurprisingly they all looked well tended and full of vegetable and fruit waiting to be harvested; there was obviously no chance that I was going to get an allotment for years.  I spent all winter watching ‘The Good Life’ and smugly telling people I had my name down for an allotment, describing my plans for growing garlic and sweetcorn, French beans and strawberries; I was particularly smug because I didn’t think I’d ever have to actually do anything.

 

But last month my smirking wife told me I had to ring the Secretary to the Parish Council.  Was I still interested in an allotment?

 

I eventually found ‘my’ plot, but it appeared to be nearly twice the size of everyone else’s.  But there were strawberry plants in one corner, raspberries and gooseberries in another bed, leeks and parsnips still in the ground and in the corner what looks suspiciously like a large vine! 

 

It obviously needs some digging over, a few weeds here and there but it even has a large pile of well-rotted horse manure.  I would just need a garden shed for my tools and I could be producing food for my family and friends as well.

 

So it is now official; I am now the proud tenant of the largest plot on the allotment and all for the princely sum of £10 per year. Unlike most of my bursts of enthusiasm and hobbies, my wife seems to see the allotment as a sensible option.  It will help keep me fit, out of trouble and will give us cheap vegetables.

 

One month on and reality has set in. The allotment which seemed so weed-free and bursting with vegetable opportunities suddenly seemed to have the most comprehensive spread of dandelions, cooch grass and other things I know I can’t eat but don’t recognise from watching Alan Titchmarsh. 

 

I begin the process which leads to an aching back and depleted bank account. A cheap hand-fork lasted 10 minutes and has now been replaced by a very posh £10 German fork (possibly even the same type used to dig tunnels out of various Stalags).  You would not believe how much organic chicken manure pellets (as recommended by Bob Flowerdew) can cost or the disgusting taste of blood fish and bone meal when the wind blows it back into your face.

 

But a month later and I have now conquered one of my six 20’ square beds.  I have planted red and white onions which are now actually appearing through the soil, along with some of the weeds I thought I had dug up. Two types of lettuce are growing and various beans are sprouting on empty windowsills around the house.  A visit to the local library has seen me using ‘weed-suppressing membrane’ on another bed whilst a forecasted fine weekend means more weeding so the massive range of seeds collected from all the garden centres in the area can now go into the ground as finally the weather warms up. 

 

I am still only taking out leeks and spinach planted by the previous tenant but they do taste better, it’s true.  My back is killing me and I have an unhealthy interest in sourcing horse and chicken manure (well-rotted preferred). But I now understand why Tom looked so tired and smug; and it wasn’t just because he was married to Barbara.