I may not live to regret this but first let me explain.
Way back in the depths of winter during one
of my better, and more optimistic, spells healthwise
I was idly flicking through our little quarterly
village magazine when my attention fell upon
an article about the local allotment association
exhorting like-minded people to put their names
down for a plot.
|Oh goody - I appear to have a composter!|
I am no stranger to the lure of damp compost,
sturdy wellingtons and rows of neatly regimented
crops quietly burgeoning with a promise of even
better things to be had with just a litte care.
So what did I do? I think you might just have guessed.
Like an idiot I dashed off a request for my name to
be placed forthwith on the waiting list and thought
no more of the matter.
|The full enormity of it all.|
That is until last night when I received a phone call to
say that, like scum, my name had risen to the top
of the pile and that I was to present myself at 2.30pm
sharp today at the allotments off Boat Dyke Lane
when I would be shown my allotted plot and duly
welcomed into the family of allotmenteers.
Coming, ready of not.
More will follow on this subject!