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.

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.