There is a saying from somewhere back in the annals of time about 'over-egging your pudding'. I feel that yesterday, I may have fallen foul of this...
It's the allotment you see. If I'm going to spend almost every second of time there which is not spent at Binland or in bed, then I want it to look pretty. Of course, Mother Nature is pulling out all the stops where beauty is concerned at the moment, but no one ever had too much of that, did they?
So yesterday, I headed over to the allotment, pockets stuffed with various items, one of which I was bunting. Now I keep telling the husband that bunting will be very good for keeping the beasties off my brassicas, what with its flappy approach to life. He's not convinced, but as I used the same argument to justify a three feet tall raspberry pink windmill whose new home is the middle of my allotment, then I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at his cynicism.
So clutching the bunting, I set to prettifying the square patch of dirt which is my allotment. The bunting was the waterproof kind, so made a most satisfying racket when the wind blew, It was also extremely English in its appearance. You'll know what I mean when I say spots, flowers, lace and gingham. Yep, my bunting was rocking the look all the way to the nearest Garden Party.
Having got all of that up and facing the right way (not as easy as it sounds, especially in a Force 6) I decided to plant the remaining seeds in the last empty bed. Leeks, cauliflower and swede were incarcerated in the dirt along with the other poor unfortunates in my beds. I then did a little gentle weeding, rounded the dogs up, and headed for the gate.
I then made the mistake of looking back.
Well. My allotment, which would have been indistinguishable from all the other squares of dirt, now looked like something you'd see at the funfair. Perhaps the stall with the goldfish, or the Hook a Duck (without the water of course). The bunting was flapping furiously, and the windmill was going round so fast, that for a second I wondered about hooking it up to the National Grid and powering Slough.
There is a saying in my family which was often attributed to the Osmonds in their heyday, and it went along the lines of 'all teeth and no trousers'.
I fear that my allotment, which has a look which promises everything, may fall flat on its face, delivering nothing except that Kohlrabi.
Whatever that is...