A Thing of Rare Beauty

Joella was right in the comments box there about how allotting (or whatever the verb is- I think we will make an executive decision to go for now with allotmenteering) at the very least gives you something new to obsess about.  In my case I've spent the best part of two weeks nurturing an almost morbid fixation with wooden pallets, of the sort that my neighbour in Plot 23 (an allotmenteering veteran, of fully six weeks standing) has nailed together to fashion a rudimentary but capacious compost bin.  

Now a compost bin is a particular priority over here on Plot 23, given that two of its four sides are covered in a riot of dead wood and unwanted foliage, and that we are not quite ready yet to take the advice of the old Irishman who, on taking one look at my pathetic efforts to belabour a particularly prickly corner with a rusty pair of rose-shears, counselled that I would be better off 'getting a big bloody bonfire out of that lot', adding, with obvious relish, that what he would do is 'get a great big fucking fifty-litre tin drum, drill a load of holes in it, and set the bastard alight- that would soon sort it out'. 

While this graphic image held a certain attraction, it had to compete with an alternative vision, in which my hamfisted efforts at controlled incineration led to the inadvertent destruction in a ball of flames of the shed and all its contents, closely followed by the arrival of the Fire Brigade, and a possible charge of arson.  Now this is the sort of thing I imagine Site Secretary Ivy (not to mention the bloke in Plot 22 who the shed is shared with, and who I have already upset very slightly by mistakenly chopping to pieces his blackberry bush, believing it to be 'some brambles') would take a dim view of.  So I decided that discretion was the better part of valour- and determined to revert to Plan 'A'.

The first part of this plan- finding three good-sized pallets- turned out to be the easy part.  Within three days and without really looking too hard I had located a dozen or so of the blighters, discarded in skips, up alleyways, or leaning against walls in the sidestreets of M19.  The hard part was getting them back to the plot without the aid of a vehicle, given that they are a lot heavier than they look, as I discovered while spending the best part of a sweltering Saturday afternoon hauling the nearest likely-looking one I could find two hundrend yards through the backlanes, in constant fear of either sustaining a slipped disc or attracting the attentions of the constabulary.  

This experience left me in no doubt that some help was going to be needed getting pallets two and three (kindly donated by the management of Madina International Superstore, Stockport Road) half a mile up to the plot from their temporary home in our backyard.  This is where Skipsey and his car were going to come in again last Sunday afternoon- but twenty minutes of manouvering, cajoling, and swearing (mostly of swearing) were enough to convince us that mid-size saloon cars are not really built to accommodate seven-foot squares of solid wooden planks hammered together with rusty nails, and especially not on their day off.

It was starting to rain now.  Quite hard, in fact.  And my suggested alternative course of action- that one of us could distract the driver of a 192 bus with a complicated fare enquiry, while the other one smuggled the pallets upstairs inside sixteen hastily-sown together Tesco Bags For Life- had been briefly countenanced, before being dismissed as unworkable.  A third course of action- that of retiring to the Fiddlers Green for three pints of Guinness and a front-row seat for Liverpool versus Tottenham Hotspur- was being given serious consideration, at least by me.  

And then I remembered that the bloke next door- who is a tradesman of some sort- has a van.  Ten minutes later we were unloading the pallets effortlessly from the back of it, and an hour after that (including only light amounts of swearing this time) Skipsey was declaring our completed handiwork- a rudimentary but capacious compost bin, no less- to be 'a thing of rare beauty'.

The manual work completed, we proceeded to the last official business of the day, which was to adjudicate on the results of the Madina International Superstore/ Fiddlers Green Public House/Al The Tradesman Of Some Sort From Next Door Fastest Seedling Spring Sweepstakes.  Which are as follows:

1st: Radish

2nd: Rocket

3rd: Parsley

(Non-Runner: Spring Onion)

Which I think means Abby and Craig the Eggplant/Aubergine/Owbrrgine Man from Australia are the joint winners, but that as Abby is disqualified from receiving prize money on account of being closely related to the management of Crinklybee The Honest Bookmakers Ltd, Craig is duly declared the winner and has 48 hours from the time at the bottom of this post to collect his winnings, which he can do by calling in person here at Crinklybee Towers, with suitable identification, such as an ocean liner boarding pass.  Well done Craig, and thank you to everyone for taking part.  Until next time- Good-night.   

Comments

[Craig]

I would like to thank my Dad for getting me interetsed in gardenning in the first place. Applying my expertise to pot plants has been an eminently sensible economic move.
I wish to donate my entire winnings to the progression of the allotment. Please use the small fortune to buy more seeds, fertiliser and perhaps a tool or two.
A small plaque mounted close to the radishes would also be appreciated.
Thank you, thank you. No, really, please sit down.

[looby]

I've made my first tiny baby steps and got some seedlings for our relentlessly concreted back yard. Next thing, a bag of dirt to put them in and then I suppose we'll wait and see. I'm going for tomatoes, which I'm not sure flourish in Lancashire north of the Ribble, but we'll have a bash.

[Izzy]

I'd say take no advice from that old Irishman with the colourful turn of phrase. Conservation versus conflagration - no contest, especially now that you have that custom built compost bin.

[abby]

I never have been very lucky at gambling. As to fire, I was taking to my friend RIchard who says there is a whole category of people on his allotment in Oxford who like to burn things as their main allotment activity, so this is clearly something to watch out for. I can't wait to see the rare beauty of your compost bin first hand and have even heard about an imminent inspection from an actual allotment Chairman on Tuesday -- good luck!

[jonathan]

Craig, your gesture is truly humbling and I will dedicate the first plate of allotment radishes to you, if and when they arrive.

Looby, your gesture is also truly humbling. I can now say that if I have achieved nothing else on these pages since June 2004 I have had a small hand in inspiring a man in Lancaster to undertake a possibly foolhardy experiment in the cultivation of Mediterranean foodstuffs. It's moments like this that make it all worthwhile.

Me mam, your advice on composting is duly noted but I'm still sorely tempted by the purchase of an incinerator. I will take a second opinion from the visiting allotment chairman who is due into Piccadilly in approximately one hour.

Abby due to the above engagement I am rushing out this moment to catch a 192 bus (stopping perhaps to purchase a Johnsons steak pie on the way) but rest assured there is a spade in that shed with your name on it!