When even the cat rejects you.........

The seasonal clock ticked on relentlessly and with the weather improving day by day I was only too aware that I could no longer put off tackling the allotment. Fortunately I had some friends coming up from Sussex to stay for a few days and never had the words 'Press Gang' resonated so loudly within my heart.

The sad part is that actually, I knew, far from press ganging them into helping down the allotment they were biting at the bit to get their hands dirty. The truth is that far from having to encourage them to get stuck in I found myself thinking of things we could go out and do so I didn't have to work on the bally allotment all weekend!

"Oooh look, there's a wonderful show of Snowdrops at Brinton and it is only open today. I know, I know it means we'll have less time on the allotment but SNOWDROPS! And it's kinda sunny too. Honestly it'll be great." So off we went to the snowdrop woodland walk and another few hours of digging was avoided.

Eventually I run out of distractions (it is Norfolk in the winter) and I found myself with Alison and our friends Graham & Shirley 'down the allotment'. I didn't feel too bad about them digging for Britain as they were quite rightly suffering from slight pangs of guilt themselves for it was they, along with several other friends, that persuaded me to obtain the said allotment. Matthew, their son, whom seems the most intelligent of the trio had elected to stay back at our house to keep the cat company which was a shame as I had planned to use him to go down the mole tunnels and catch a few of the little critters!

In the end we had a good days work with a rhubarb bed enlarged to take the many rhubarb plants dotted all over the plot, Gooseberries repositioned to allow them to grow to their full potential and much the same done to the raspberry canes. The ground was now prepared for digging over.

As I pushed the pitch fork into the ground it kept making a cracking sound, now I had bought these tools at a silly cheap price from the local auction and fully expected them to break sooner than later so was none too surprised at the sound. However on inspection I could not ascertain from where the sound was originating. I checked the wooden handle at the top and I checked the shaft where it joined the metal prongs, nothing.

Once again I stuck the prongs into the ground, stepped on the fork and once again as I pushed the fork down into the ground I heard the faint sound of a crack. Concerned that the thing would snap as I was in the process of thrusting downward causing me to collapse in a pile on the ground I decided to inspect the metal prongs themselves.... Nothing.

Gingerly I continued to use it again and again a slight crack emanated from below me. I carried on regardless and after a while I had need to use the spade instead. I planted it on the ground and just as I pushed it into the ground 'CRACK'!  Funny, I thought to myself, that 'crack' sounds just like the 'crack' that the pitch fork gives off.

I mused on the point, privately, for a few moments.  I hesitatingly picked up another pitch fork and  placed it's forks on to the mud. I placed my foot squarely on the top of the metal and pushed down....   'Crack'!
Then I did the same again but instead of using my right foot I tried my left foot..... Not   a   sound.

It would appear that it was not the knackered old pitchfork after all but the knackered old man's knee pushing the bloody thing!!  I chose not to disclose this finding to my buddies as I really didn't want to encourage the open season on ribbing at my expense.


Last Thursday was a beautiful day and so I hired a rotavator to dig the plot over. With 6,000sqft of mud to dig and a knee that sounds like a ratchet every time it moves I thought the £24 hire charge was a bargain. I spent all afternoon rotavating over the plot and at the end it looked the business.

Earlier in the day I had met up with 'Chip' the farmer at the far end of the village who provided me with about a tonne of rotted manure. There is a photograph of Chip's grandfather on my dinning room wall along with one possibly of his great grandfather too (the photo at the top left of this blog page). This is because his family used to run the Bakery in years gone by. It is a small village.


The next day I broke my back muck spreading all morning. The rotavator had to be back by lunchtime and so I worked like a trojan to get as much muck spread as I could so that I could then use the rotavator to dig it into the ground.

Finally the job was done, the rotavator was returned to the hire shop and I went home to crash out in my armchair. It has to be said that if you want to find out whom your true friends are try muck spreading well rotted manure by hand for 3 hours then return home to your loved ones.
Even the cat wouldn't sit on my lap.


I decided to go and have a wash, I struggled to clamber out of the armchair and just as I was straightening my legs to walk off my body complained with one more pathetic little 'crack' from my knee.
It's going to be a long, long summer..........






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