Squeeze Me

Hurumph. I'm not overly happy.

You'd have thought, wouldn't you, that with five children patience might have been high on my (very short) list of attributes. You'd be wrong.

Nothing is growing (and nobody else seems to have this problem. I haven't got green fingers. More like kiss-of-death fingers). The peas are not looking too healthy. The broccoli has been nearly decimated, despite protection, and my plot is looking scruffy. I'm fed up with not being allowed a shed on site (despite the bloke in charge building himself a very large one) and someone has taken out the steps leading up to the allotments so now it is a very muddy slope. It was hard to negotiate before, now it's impossible especially if your arms are laden with trugs, plants, children and flask.

Oh and (yes, this List of Moans has not finished) my plot is titchy. In every facet of my life I feel squeezed. The list of things that are not big enough include my clothes, house, allotment and days. Moan, whinge, whine. I know it is in my power to change all of this (well, apart from the size of my plot and time, of course) but sometimes it's just nice to vent. Deep breath. In with love and - exhale - out with everything else. Feel better already.