Thanks to all the rain I’ve been able to neglect my allotment duties, but after a fortnight of not seeing the place, I thought I should pay a visit. So I did, Saturday. In a word: Jungle.
The potato plots, sheer madness. The courgettes have exploded. The onions are like towering stalks, sunflower high (not quite). The pumpkins aren’t happy.
Surprisingly, and much unlike a weed, I didn’t really need to weed the plots. So in lieu of plot-weeding I path-weeded and got a good chunk done. I was tackling a corner where I haven’t seen the path since winter, got stung on my legs, arms, neck, face, by nettles, thought ‘fuck it’, and gave up.
My one complaint, while trying to water the onions and potatoes, while trying to keep the water off their leaves, not one of them fucking moved. The early potatoes hold the biggest part of my complaint because how am I meant to get the hose in and around without tangling myself in knots? Shaun says that I can’t expect them to move because they’re plants. Although he may have a point, I disagree.
After locking up the shed, making sure I’d locked up, walking back again, I got in the car and hot-footed it over to Shaun & Myles. We had ourselves a boys afternoon, which consisted of the 2 P’s, Park and Pub. Although Myles did make friends in the play area, I was still asked to climb the wooden frame thing. I did, 3 times, and I was the only adult I saw do it.
Sunday saw not much happening until I ordered dinner from Fresh Roast Pots. It’s a place where you can get a roast dinner in a pot, a paper pot. It’s not a home-cooked roast dinner but it’s better than trying to make one for one. Anyway, so the doorbell rang and this rather handsome black lad handed me my meal. I walked upstairs, grabbed a plate, and the doorbell rang. I figured I wouldn’t mind seconds and headed back downstairs. This rather gnarled white man handed me my meal, and he was in a rush, I didn’t know what was happening, a neighbour was trying to get in, and off he went. I got back upstairs and I’ve got 2 meals! I called, they were like ‘whatevs’, and that was that. This never happens to me.
Later that evening, at 9pm, there was a stern knock at my flat door. I don’t like answering my flat door. You ring my doorbell. I’ll then hang out the window, look down upon you, and decide if I want to engage you.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was a policewoman. My landlord’s garden flat had had an attempted break-in that afternoon. Had I seen anything?
I’d been in all day and no, nothing.
Besides, if the burglar had got in they would have to tidy up before they could steal anything because their flat makes my flat look sterile.