Allotments Digging for Victory
By Keith Nurse - 10/01/2008
First there was Bert. An amiable heavyweight, he’d journey cautiously to his allotment plot on a creaking bike, his trousers tucked into his socks, a black shopping bag looped over the handlebars. Then, stripping to his white vest in summer, he’d plant himself on a plastic chair, beneath the cover of the overhanging oaks, and call out, a friendly ‘Morning’. The greeting always sounded like ‘Mourning’. They said he was 80 plus. Even in his figure-hugging vest, Bert didn’t look it.
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