A couple of weeks ago I mentioned the annoying letter we had from the Allotment Management Committee. I wrote:
There is outrage and fury at Discombobulated Towers. We have had a very snotty letter from the allotment management committee saying and I quote (to show what a twonky bunch of pillocks they are) “the level of cultivation of your plot this year is limited in its scope and not consistent with the objectives of the society and the obligations of membership”. So far this year the other-half has planted sweet corn, carrots, kale, broccoli, swedes, radishes, lettuce, courgettes, tomatoes, squash, cabbages, peas, beans and raspberries in between working and
insulting looking after me. Words fail me. Honestly put some people on a committee and
give them clipboards and the next moment they're goose-stepping all over the
place. I’m tempted to storm round to the
head honcho’s house, pound on his door and shout “I’ve got cancer I have” (well
there’s got to be some perks). But
revenge is a dish best served cold – and preferably by a hired assassin. In the words of the immortal Father
Jack ARSE BISCUITS to the lot of them.
Well, in the spirit of not-letting-things-lie and Advanced Grudge Holding I am still miffed about the whole situation. Here is a picture of the allotment when we took it over last year
|No work required there then|
And this is it about three weeks later when we’d cleared it.
|An action weeding shot - oh the excitement|
It’s currently planted up (apart from a quarter which is covered in plastic to keep weeds at bay).
And here's a picture of the cat-that-hangs-around-the-allotments-all-day. I'm not sure if he's a committee spy but look at the walk and the set of his ears. He looks like he thinks he's very important.
|A dodgy character|
Also I had romantic notions about allotments as the sort of place where everyone would be friendly, offering jars of handmade pickles tied with gingham ribbon and inviting you round for a glass of plum wine in the shed. While some people are really nice others are incredibly grumpy. There’s one couple in particular that send us running from the allotments as soon as they arrive. The bloke continuously shouts at his wife telling her she’s doing everything wrong. If she ever came down to the plot by herself I’d tell her that if she wants to hit him over the head with a shovel I’d happily help her dig a trench and bury him. Mind you, he’d probably come back and haunt her telling her the grave was sub-standard.
Anyway, there you have it, my allotment dilemma. I expect it will be on national news soon.
Chemo tomorrow, so I’ve been downloading like crazy on to my Kindle. I’m on steroids too so I’ve ironed bed linen, something I only ever do when I’m in a steroid frenzy. My mum would shake her head at me as she used to iron everything, including knickers. She once even starched my tiered skirt (shut up, it was the 70’s) I looked like one of those knitted ladies people used to put over the spare loo roll.