Vinegar and a golden key .

It has been over a month since I applied for an allotment .
 The town clerk dealing with same is legendary for her vinegar at best and her venom at worst . She has not just moved the goal posts she has chopped them up and set light to them .

I am no good at being patient when I have an idea I want to come to fruition . I knew that a response of any warmth would give her the reason to put me off till after Christmas .

As far as she knew I had lost interest and walked off .
This did the trick .
Today at the breakfast table there was a fat envelope next to my place . When I opened it there was a sheath of papers and from these fell a small brown sealed " pay packet "envelope . I left the paperwork and gingerly opened the envelope  .

Out fell a fat gold key and yes , it did glint in the sunlight .

In the cool of the early evening we slowly walked the long green corridor between the two gates roofed with beach leaves and the squawk of starlings .
I put the key in the lock of the second huge gate . I turned it very slowly ,  savouring the moment .
The gate gave a satisfying clank .


 Serenity seems to seep out of the soil . It felt like another country . Along the little paths , here sweetcorn , there two hives and their buzzing bees , here fat pods of peas and there a coop with two clucking chickens  .

And here's the plot . Rhubarb , raspberries , strawberries and blackberry bushes . A table and chairs all wrought with bind weed .

There's so much to do . Rough grass , bind weed  and thistles too . I am half in love with it already .

Then , unbidden a man emerges from the plot next door . I tell him bout my plan to smother the weeds and he offers a tarpaulin and an old carpet from home .

Another toy figure is across the site . He approaches and turns into another ( full sized ) plot holder . We stand in the sun and chat .

I go back to my plot . The first man is going home . As he goes he calls over " don't worry , it will be fine , mine looked like that to start with  ."

In this short visit I have made two more human connections . I have walked land I can call my own .
I have stood tall in all the burgeoning green rows smiling at the saxophonist . It is sunny and I am now the proud inheritor of two wheel barrows and a shed .

I know that this is going to be a summer of bramble thorns tattooing my body  .
 I know that my legs will be like lead from the digging  .

But there are times when you just know you are in the right place - and I am .

Plot and plan .

We painted and my cousin put together a cold frame in our garden on Sunday evening .  And then we went to the pub  obviously .

Yesterday we went to London . Lunch in China Town . Portrait of a lady by Alesso Baldovinetti ( room 59 ) at the national gallery .A bit of girlie shopping . Longchamp in the sales and then flowing trousers and cropped stripped tee shirts to wear round the house .

So today was the day to site the frame . A slow ponderous rain came down in disconcerting isolated plops . We were mid way through and then it bucketed . The saxophonist knows I will see things through and we were wet anyway .

We dug out bricks from here and collected them from there . Dug out the space and I laid a brick floor .The saxophonist tipped the puddles off the frame and impressively lifted it high and in . ( The top is a heavy old Victorian glazed window ) .

It looks very professional and it will enable me to grow from seed and plant out at the allotment .

We admired it and then each other . The saxophonist had mud smears wrist to shoulder . I had thick mud splashes ankle to thigh .We looked like half hearted mud wrestlers or incompetent body artists .

I anticipate that there will be a lot more satisfying foolishness to come .

A hot bath  and now  umbrella's akimbo to the pub to discuss more senseless satisfaction I think  .

Rain and promise .

A rainy Friday and I put on my raincoat and cap and head out for a three o clock rendezvous . I arrive early and realise there are school gates nearby .

Various older men walk up and four times I am convinced that a man is the one I'm after . I smile and step  forward . Each man smiles back and goes on toward the school gates to pick up their child .
I resolve to stop smiling at random men , feeling sure that a teacher will come out and have a word with me if I do not desist .

My phone goes off . It is Alan . He has been waiting at the another gate . He tells me to stop put and that he will come to me .

Alan arrives and unlocks  tall ornate iron gates and in we go .

The place is so green and tranquil .He leads me along little green paths and there we are .

I am shocked . I expected the plot to be overgrown after eighteen months left to itself . I did not expect this . Buried and half buried things form mounds under grass and trailing weeds .
I trip over what turns out to be a raised bed . Alan trips over a handle and pulls out a scythe .

There is a strawberry bed in addition to however many raised beds . There is sturdy seating and a shed .Pull back the weeds and there are two wheel barrows , two watering cans , a potting bench and various tools .
The shed  is for the moment locked so who knows what's in there .

The previous incumbent has officially quit the site and has until a certain date to remove any of his property he still wants . After that date anything on the allotment becomes legally mine .

The tools and so forth do not motivate me though . There are ripe strawberries , a raspberry cane and a blackberry hedge .The plot has promise and the summer is coming on . We will see .

Stranger on the shore .

Went blond again last night . Went to see some Edward Bawden and some Eric Ravilious today .

I had the need to mark my territory again . It's been a while since I was in a gallery . It always washes me clean and reinforces my values about what matters in life .

I needed to get to the way I generally look too . Lately I have been staid with brown hair . Staid for me that is .With some people it looks luscious , for me it always feels like the party is in the next room .

What's my point ?
Well we are now nine weeks into being without a car . We have made great swathes of progress and moved on . Yes, I can see how far we have come .
 However , I woke up several mornings this week with the sun shining in a huge arch over the day .
 I felt like a traitor and an ungrateful traitor at that . I wanted to throw on my linen dress and strap on my sandals and run towards an ocean .

If I cannot do that then I need to say to myself that I am all that I ever was and that the beach will keep. I need to feel good about the way I look . I need the consolations , excitement and joy of great art .

This life is so different. There is so much of it that is good . I have great gratitude that we can share it and I am now on my way to not being hair trigger about the saxophonist .

This life is so different and is gradually getting worn in so that it feels like a favourite old coat and not a stiff new one .

The feeling I'm trying to pin down is this .
 It's as if I am strolling down the street and suddenly see that old lover . Forbidden fruit if you like . And , and just for a few seconds I picture myself languorous and naked in his arms .

I am faithful to the saxophonist and always have been but if I was going to have an affair it would be with a deserted stormy beach .

You can stick your ticket .

Following on from yesterdays rant / opinions aired ...... (thanks for your encouraging comments - what follows is your own fault ) :

What do you think about waiting rooms and queues ?

Yes ! I thought so .

A long wait expected or otherwise is a regular occurrence .Also of course those waiting in the queue will have amongst them people who are an oppression to the spirit .

( How I love those people who bring a paperback and a patient attitude . Those who sit silent apart from the very occasional gentle sigh betokening fellow feeling on your mutual wait . )

Can we also agree on the new mother who apparently is the only person in the world ever to have given birth , breast fed , had the absolute God given right to a 100% attention of every member of the public health profession breathing .
Likewise accompanying grandmother who is hot wired to say loudly that the baby is named for a royal and is therefore regal or named for a long dead antecedent and therefore has gravitas .
Said great grandfather may have been a farm labourer ( and good for him and all others of his ilk ) but the passage of time has allowed grandmother , she thinks , to add a rich , rural , crust to said labourer . Said labourer is now the backbone of Britain , purveyor of sustenance and good rumbustious bucolic joy to the masses . He is the sanitised superior to anything on your family tree or mine . He is "ye olde merry England ".

Ok .... rant over .

Cause ?
The last few health checks for the saxophonist and the saxophonists wife who has been coerced into well women / responsible citizen checks when caught with her guard down waiting for the saxophonist .

Remedy ?
Get through the bloody things and then use common sense and intelligence to swerve all pointless nonsense and thence exercise autonomy . Meaning practice nurses who say you should eat this or exercise that whilst being the size of a barrel . ( I am size 10 to 12 ) .Resist the urge to say " I am fully cognitive of your expertise and agenda and cordially invite you to fuck off " .

So gentle reader thank you for taking a number and sitting it out on a hard seat with the mother/baby/grandmother combo on one side and a man with nasty trousers and a twitch on the other .

Your reward is the writers solemn oath that the next post will be informed by the writer having a good meal in China town and  time in the national gallery .

Options and Fornication .

Adventures by train and country bus have begun . I like very much the freedom of it . I love the improvisation and spontaneity of such journeys . The transience and the unexpected .

Home pleasures satisfy . Reading  , drawing , making things  , walking .

However , somewhat out of character , I have contemplated joining something . To save you the bother of doing the same I'll explain .

Option one : community choir .

"friendship and fun "

Well , they could have had them under the trades description act on that one .

Men with comb overs and women gone prematurely blond caterwauling whilst wearing novelty wigs and hats . Bad enough I know but their rendition of classic soul songs ...

Its quite hard , I imagine , to sing about loss , desire and raunchy sex as if it should be banned .
 They managed it .

I gather they intend to have a " summer buffet " and a glass of wine will be " available to purchase ".
I will either have to drink two litres of rough cider and wear my knickers as an improvised fascinator or stay away .
Stay away I think and of course I advise you to do the same .

Option two : charity shop volunteer .

"community spirit and commitment "

The hearty and the sanctimonious convene ( in this case at least ) to encourage you to form an enclave where men are not needed .

Quiz's , book groups and fun for the ladies .

Now , I have never drunk a bottle of scotch straight down or road tested a selection of sex toys but I wouldn't half like to suggest it to the ladies .

Best I stay away and probably you too ?
Yes I think so .


I said to the saxophonist was I being overly critical or displaying rather telling character traits with my reaction to options one and two ?

He said , firstly , that he would not pay fifteen quid to sit through two hours of the choir giving it what for .
He said , secondly , that my comments on the "options" were a bit naughty .

I said that I thought the "naughty " was what he married me for , along with the great cooking and an enthusiastic aptitude for  explicit detail deleted .

He thought about this for a while and did a slow grin .

Advice then : if you are a person who likes joining things , fill your boots , and if you are not then I'm sure you , like me ,  you will find your own amusements .

The seductive sprout .

It had been a nostalgic conversation  and an exasperated one too .

Why do people eat ready meals ? I had half a one to try and threw the rest in the bin , hungry as I was . It bore no resemblance to proper food . It was frankly nasty .

People will tell you they have no time to cook but they do seem to have time to watch endless television every night . Life style and choice of course .
Which brings me back to nostalgia . It was my cousin I was having the conversation with . We thought fondly of all meals cooked at home and were glad we still did the same .
Then we talked about the first new potatoes , small as marbles coming off the allotment and given a crown of a knob of butter or two and a pinch of salt .

This then led into how peas and runners you harvest yourself taste completely different to any other .

He then sang a hymn of praise to tiny early broad beans and I waxed lyrical about muffling up on Christmas eve to pick small nutty tasting sprouts to roast with bacon or chestnuts .

Our grandfather and father's all had extensive allotments and my cousin still has one . I gave mine up when time got short . I told him how I missed it and that now would be a good time to begin again .

Last Sunday the cousin , the saxophonist and I sat in convivial conversation over a pint . The conversation drifted here and there and in a quiet gap the cousin said he'd spoken to the site manager and it looked like I could have a plot soon . I told him " yes " but I wanted time to mull it over ( I thought this to myself  ).

Yesterday I walked out along the river and thought of my exasperation with people who wanted good food but would not cook it .

I sat in my sequestered nook - a hidden branch of a willow way out along the river . Just me and a few nearby water birds .
Then I grinned to myself and the ducks and coots . I had known it all along , I guess , deep down . You make time for whats important to you .
I knew then I had never really left the allotments of my childhood and later my own . I remembered that I sort of knew anyway it wasn't goodbye - just time out .

There is time now for me to dig and weed and plant . There will be that good tiredness of heavy limbs from productive labour .

And then , and then  there will be baskets of radishes and beetroot , buckets of potatoes and onions , trugs of lettuces and spring onions . I will be weary , muddy and in yet another sense home again .