The democracy of dirt .

I was sitting on the bench at my plot this afternoon . I've been doing this a lot lately , usually covered in mud or soaked and often both . I looked at the plot and realised the wilderness has gone .
There are rows of beet , beans , cabbages , sprouts and leeks . Broad beans , garlic and onion sets will follow shortly .

I have met fellow plotters. I have been given cooking apples and a pumpkin .

Yesterday a man approached, six foot , long pony tail .He looked over the plot .
 "That carpet is better than the one in my sitting room " he said .
 I explained about getting old carpets from the carpet shop and pushing them in a shopping trolley all the way to the plot . Twice .
 He listened , nodded and eyed up the straight rows and the nets here and there to keep the pigeons off . " I've got a digger " he said . "if you get the last of the rough off I'll go over it for you if you like ".

Heavy limbed and content the saxophonist and I discuss it over a pint .
When did going through the motions become an enthusiasm , a joy .

We have made friends there , because although we are a diverse bunch we all have a love of the green haven .
 A place were we can sit serene , drinking tea  in our muddy glory , where we work hard and there's a sense of achievement to take home with you .

People are decent and kind to one another on the plots . We help each other and either laugh or shrug when a crop doesn't come up or gets attacked by pigeons or slugs . It's all a learning curve or an excuse to stop and chat .

In a world so ugly and uncertain as it sometimes seems a man with a digger and some generosity is most welcome .

This afternoon I walked along the little paths to his plot and put a jar of piccalilli and two jars of chutney I'd made in his poly tunnel . He will know who they are from .

It feels good to be part of a community where nothing more is implied than meant .

Kaleidoscope

I saw some one offered a free non disposable canvas bag . I was behind him in the queue and when he was asked " what colour ?" he said " it did not matter"  .

I was shocked . How can you have no preference ?

It's the same as people who live in beige clothes and look beige themselves .
 Few people want to look like Coco the clown but to not delight in colour in some way is inexplicable to me .

 I have always been excited by colour :

• Opening a new paint box .

• Huge old fashioned apothecary bottles full of brightly coloured water in chemist shop windows .

• Old Christmas tree baubles from the fifties or earlier . 

• Old fashioned Spangles that had waxed wrappers that thrillingly included purple and white stripes , yellow and white stripes , dark emerald and white stripes ....

• Expensive balloons in beautiful colours ( not those horrid foil ones )

• bottles of ink .

• The colours of stained glass the sun throws onto plain church floors .

• Trays of embroidery thread all graded by shade . A draw in the cabinet for each colour .

• Semi precious stones that are lemon yellow , blood red , kingfisher , lime green .

• Coloured foil on Easter eggs .

• Reels of ribbon .

• Unexpected fairy light colours .

• Brush pens in lines of colour that include mint , leaf green , mustard , dark storm blue and cerise . 

I hope it is common for people to revel in such every day joy .

Beat .

We went for a drink with a cousin of mind last night . His ailments are various and the people he disapproves of are many . I think we may excuse ourselves from further joy !

Anyway woke this morning feeling despondent about life and old , very old .

So the saxophonist being the best physician there is said " lets go to London ".

So I put on a new dress and some scent and we went .

Round to the little independent publishers I love . Price had gone up but I bought six gems anyway , across to the artists colourment shop and on to eat chinese at leisure and in the cool .
On to one of my favourite shops .
 Black silky slip dress in the sale and new season soft moss hoodie to sling nonchalant over the top . ( I will wear it with this seasons girlie socks and stacks .)

Out to sit in the shade and sip water .

Along from us was a street performer . A young woman with wild brown hair and a full drum kit . She had speakers and a backing tape . Think drum and base ( a la Jumping Jack Frost .)

Interesting to watch . The men treated her like any other street performer .
The women , though , that was  different .

She was very good ( and technically good the saxophonist said ).

There were two types of women and in each group were old and young , wealthy and not so much .

One group tightened their lips , pulled their cardigans across them and walked away .

The other group ( and very diverse they were ) moved to the rhythm , smiled back at her , clapped and gave her money . In some cases a five pound note .
Stately Japanese lady in a straw hat , blond American , two ladies in saris , two little girls and their mum  with dread locks .

Summer in the city , exuberant and loud wild music that said . " I love drumming and I'm good at it , I love being a woman and I 'm good at it ".

Didn't have to decide which camp I was in just knew I did not feel old any more .

Was that a pigeon ?

The bus swoops down green lanes like a swift .

Its not that swift though as it detours to various villages on the way .
It's been a revelation this temporary bus / train travel .
The conversations you hear .
Plus I  thought the twice weekly trip out of the village to shop was over . I had sort of assumed that people were not so anchored in the village for most of the week as they always used to be . By no means is this true .

We went to see some Eric Ravilious , eat a brunch , buy a few treats in the second hand book shop . A stroll round the market and then onto the sequestered garden .

A maze , scented old roses , some Victorian hot houses and lots of hidden green corners with benches .

We sit on a bench drinking icy , very lemony lemonade .We look at our book finds . I read out a good bit and am stopped in my tracks .

Somebody lets out a loud raucous fart . The saxophonist and I raise our eyebrows at one another in surprise .
Then the saxophonist says " was that a pigeon ?

I reflect that unlikely remarks are not restricted to random bus passengers .

Contrast .

Having had enough of snails , slugs and hard slog , for a little while at least , we went to London today .
I bought two new dresses .
Black ,  since you ask and two pairs  of roman style sandals .

 Later coffee , cold water and cigarettes in the shady garden of the coffee shop beside St James , Piccadilly . There is a fountain there with two stone cherubs throwing water at one another . Sensible plan in the heat .

I'm going to pair the dresses and sandals with a slick of lipstick and a squirt of scent and sass  a bit .
How do people cope without contrasts in their lives I wonder .

Of high heels and manure .

I realise from my New York friend that allotments are not universal .

An allotment site is usually owned by the local authority . It is divided into plots . These plots are rented by the year to local individuals . They are to grow fruit and / or vegetables or keep bees or chickens on .

It is a very old fashioned system . The plots are measured in "rods" . Either 5 or 10 rod per person . A rod is a medieval measurement . It is the distance from the front of the oxen to the ploughman at the back of the plough .

In the second world war they were a valuable food source and many people took one on and became part of the " dig for victory " campaign . Various people in my family have had allotments . They are part of our history .

I imagine one or two of them were looking down today when I was at the plot . I had yet another shopping trolley full of carpet and bricks and tools .

They will be sitting in a celestial bar somewhere , helpless with laughter at the high heels and lipstick girl in dirty dungarees discussing the merits of various manures and what is the superior shit .

Sex and the shopping trolley .

A bit of lateral thinking .
I needed to smother about half a tennis court's worth of weeds at the plot .

I got a large shopping trolley from the nearest supermarket and pushed it to the local carpet shop . I assumed that they took the " old " carpet away when they fitted a new one .
They did and had to pay someone to take the old ones  .

I and the saxophonist filled the trolley with rolls of carpet and pushed it all the way to the plot .

We rolled the carpets out and anchored them with bricks . This leaves a smaller piece to plant for now .

Pushing the laden trolley down kerbs , up hills and then across the grass , especially in the full sun ,  is not for the feint hearted .

We took turns and I watched  the saxophonist force the trolley across the grass  .
I thought  "I love you in my bed but this is also an act of love and I am a lucky woman ."