Honesty

I love Honesty. It reminds me of my grandparents' garden. Unfortunately none is growing in my garden, yet, because I accidentally left the packet of seeds I had especially bought out in the rain one day.

I also like, and appreciate, honesty. I mean, if I was being honest I'd write about how hard the summer holidays are. I mean, really hard. How the beach, the cinema and now, apparently, our favourite place to visit are now out for the foreseeable because it is just so hard, so stressful taking five children, two of whom are two and three and a mere, stupid, sixteen months apart.

And if I were being honest I would write how I am fed up, more than being very cheesed off, probably verging on depressed. How nothing, not this blog (which I normally love for the creativity it affords me), my container garden nor the allotment are even vaguely interesting to me.

But this is probably not the place for such honesty. Gardening is supposed to be soothing, not another chore. Still, feeling fed up with my ugly, messy garden didn't take away my enjoyment of the secret garden in town today. And that's where, walking around breathing in the scents, enjoying the greenery, I picked up some Honesty. Lovely honesty.

Looking Down and Looking Forward

Oh dear.

My veggie container garden has been neglected along with the allotment, this blog and to some extent the school gardening club.

First it was apathy, inertia and just being downright fed up and then it was the Vile Vomiting Bug that had six out of seven of us laid low.

The Cloud of Gloom is still hovering above my head (can you see it? Can you?). Nothing is growing. Well, that's a lie, green things are obviously growing because they're not dead but as for copious "look at the kilos of veggies I've harvested" posts - forget it.

I can't pretend I'm not green with envy at others; well, I could but really, what's the point? And I shan't, as a stand against some of the (non-gardening) blogs I read, pretend life is wonderful and I never get fed up. Life is quite often hard and I am very fed up.

If I start waffling about why then this won't be a gardening blog, so I'll just contain my ire for my Albatross of an Allotment (told you I wasn't happy). I just can't seem to get to grips with it. The weeds are under control, in that they are there but small and easily remedied with two hours work, probably every day.

There are great big patches of dirt where voluptuous veggies should be and I don't know why I haven't filled them. Then there are the veggies that have decided to put in an appearance. Honestly, I don't know why they bothered. It was hardly worth the effort.

But enough! As I cling to the edges in my Pit of Despair, trying to get a toehold so I can haul myself into the fresh air and sun of normal life, I've decided to reach for the rope labelled Looking Forward.

At the end of this is the box marked Seeds I Can Plant Soon For Next Year, thanks to Sarah Raven's website which I was browsing for a friend's birthday present. I've often wondered why she can't make do with Suttons seeds but she is into the pretty pretty version of country living (think Cath Kidston, Emma Bridgwater) so click away I did.

I read a couple of articles and discovered seeds you can sow in August for next year and - oops - accidentally put two packets of ammi majus Bishops Flower into my basket, y'know, one each. Apparently they make a lovely cut flower although I haven't a clue where they'll go in my garden. I'll worry about that later. I also bought some sweepeas to sow next month and a couple of other things for my friend.

It was a bit of a relief, frankly, to find these articles. I had thought that, in my usual way, my interest in gardening and this blog has run it's course and they were just another entry on the long list of Things I Never Stick At.

But it is nice to have a goal, even if it is to see how hopeless I shall be in growing these flowers. Hopefully my potting shed, built by Hubby, will be up by then and that will help. Oh yes, ever the optimist me.

Slug Alert!!!!!

Usually I'm a news junkie, listening and reading to the news helps me feel in touch with the world. But just lately I've been trying to reduce my addiction because, quite frankly, it's utterly depressing.

So imagine my joy when visiting my dad, and fellow news junkie, with a dwindling willpower, leaving me to chance upon an article about the rise of the slug.

Yep, in the next couple of months we are going to be inundated with the creatures that have both male and female sex organs and can produce up to 200 eggs a season.

Thanks to a mild winter, wet spring or it raining four months ago last Tuesday their numbers will increas four fold. So something to look forward to then, because it doesn't look as if the summer is shaping up to much.

An expert was canvassed for their view and they suggested melon rinds, empty grapefruits and those nemotodes but to treat the soil before you plant. At this rate, my veg is going to cost double what it does in the shops, even with the hike in food prices.....

Pick Me Up Plants?

It's interesting, isn't it, how soothing gardening can be and how some of us happen upon it at times of stress.

These past few weeks have been hard going. Oh, not because of any life shattering event but, green people look away now, because of the simple fact that being without a car has meant no freedom or independence. Just more of the same, which would be my four walls and a lot more of my own company that even I, a great one for solitude, can stand.

Thanks to numerous packets of seeds, other people's blogs, the gardening bloggers' paradise Blotanical, gardening magazines and my school club I have managed, just, to stay this side of perky.

Today, though, I hold my hands up in defeat. Enough! News that the garage has not even started work on my car, let alone come close to completing it, resulting in ruined holiday plans, has had me nearly weeping into my 30 tomato plants. Coupled with, in my quite sensitive state, a fairly bruising social encounter yesterday (why, oh why do I insist on stepping out of my comfort zone?) and not even the healing power of plants can work their magic.

As I was gently rocking on the swing seat, listening to the two youngest play, while poised ready to stop squabbles and ambitious climbing, I glanced across at my jam-packed growhouse heaving with wonderful green things and my heart sank. Yes, sank! All those plants, I thought morosely, just remind me of how miserable I feel. I look at them and just think MISERY.

Which is obviously not the effect I was after. No sireee. So that's that. I have nothing left in my armoury. I am all used up. Even counting my blessings, of which I have many, is not working any more. Wallowing in a sea of self-pity is all I feel able to do, which is rather pathetic but there it is. I could, I suppose, post something chipper, say, about this week's gardening club but no matter how hard I try I'm stuck. What you see, unfortunately, is always what you get.

Actually, I do have one more trick up my sleeve. Maybe I could visit the allotment, there's plenty to do and I haven't been for a few days. I could take my frustrations out on the weeds. And it's due to rain which would suit my mood perfectly. Anything, I feel, is worth a try.

Not A Happy Digger

How keen are we? Gardening by moonlight...

It takes a huge effort to go up to the allotment when Hubby comes home. It's the wrong end of the day and it's quite fresh with a cold wind. I'm in two minds, although it's nice to get away from clingy toddlers who, at this hour, could do with a visit from Supernanny and a spell on the Naughty Step.

So I make myself, knowing that I will feel better for it and there are jobs that need doing. My seven-year-old under gardener leaps at the chance to come too.

But tonight it's not been so wonderful and we return home a bit flat. Well, I do. Under gardener is concerned with her scratches but once assured that she's getting "gardener's hands" she seems satisfied. She is turning into a real help, wheeling away weeds, giving a discourse on the relative merits of the wheelbarrows she's trying out and happily going off to pee behind a tree on her own. This is progress I'm thankful for.

I feel a bit peed off because my new spade has gone missing. Other tools from the shared, minuscule shed with the door that doesn't shut properly, are all there including my (matching) new fork. Working on 'benefit of the doubt' principles I decide to write a polite but firm note requesting it's return. I'm hoping one of my neighbours has taken it by accident.

I plan to tell Mr Grumpy, the bloke in charge of the allotments. He has built himself a lovely, large shed complete, I notice tonight, with padlock. If I broach the subject of us having our own shed and he says no, I can't plead innocence when he inevitably complains. The shed three of us share is obviously not secure and quite frankly it's a pain not having one of our own. An allotment without a shed is like hot chocolate without squirty cream - tolerable but not quite right.

My mood doesn't improve when I notice that someone has been picking my tulips. It's happened before with my daffs but the person, a fellow allotmenteer, confessed with an apology. I guess he thought I wasn't going to pick them and they were going to waste. I wasn't exactly pleased but the deed was done.

This second c**p discovery cements my Eyeore-ish mood. It's not as if I have a stunning display of tulips and won't notice. There are now, thanks to the thief, five flowers. I was leaving them for a bit longer because they didn't seem ready but have now picked the only one that does. It might look a bit...um...lonley in the vase on the kitchen table but at least we get to enjoy it.

A Demanding Mistress

I feel a bit envious looking at others' plots. Not for their productivity, sheds or sheer green-fingered talent on display although that does come into play. No, it's more for the love they have for their allotment. Me? I have a love/hate relationship with ours; sometimes I feel our lottie is a demanding, expensive, time-robbing harridan who expects much but delivers little.

I think I've had the allotment for four years (and yes, she is mine, that has been made clear), making this my fifth growing season. I guess it's a bit shameful that I can't quite remember.

When we took her over, after a relatively short wait, allotments were not quite the Thing to have as they appear to be now but were, I guess, just becoming fashionable. Oh yes, that's me, on the cutting edge. When I told a friend about my plot, her response was How old are you? Trends come and go and I'm currently regarded with envy when I mention the A-word.

Despite the lottie's new stellar status, she finds herself today competing with more cuter, lovelier, expensive demands which bestow far more than they ever take so it's a bit of a one-sided contest. She has been well and truly neglected during the two pregnancies and subsequent newborn periods we've been through since we, I, became allotmenteers.

I have nearly walked away from my allotment-affair many times but something - perhaps the hope that one day she will be the plot of my dreams -has kept me there, working away.

Through our bad patches I'm never able to watch Gardeners' World, pick up my allotment books or even think too much about her. Guilt hangs heavy on my shoulders and she becomes another thing on my To Do List, another chore. Although I have thought about hanging up my trowel and walking, sheepishly, away I keep thinking it will get easier, our youngest are growing, soon they'll be at school.

So that's where we are; I keep plugging away, caterpillars, mice, pigeons keep feasting and weeds keep growing. I think maybe that's why I've not visited lottie this week, despite it being An Important Time in the allotment calender. Cold feet. But visit I will, hoping that something veggie-like will eventually grow. Hope springs eternal. I think that's what I should've called this blog.