Light my fire...

I'll be honest with you.  I'm surprised I've made it to Monday morning after yesterday.

The husband, who is off on a mini jolly for a few days had suggested that as it was his last weekend at home for a while (better check how long he's actually away for now I come to think of it) then it would be an idea to 'put the allotment to bed'.  

This would be the allotment which has yielded very little this summer unless you allow for Donald Trumpkin and the thieving rabbits who have had to widen their burrow entrances  because they snaffled all my beetroots, parsnips, carrots and onions, so as you can imagine, I wasn't too enamoured about spending what was left of my weekend up to my neck in nettles.

But go I did, and spent six hours doing a passable impersonation of a Kirby Grip as I was doubled over with my fork.  The husband, who has a sore neck at the moment, did some light tree pruning, followed by a smattering of strimming, and as I finished digging over and weeding bed number four of six, he lit a bonfire.

Did he site it well away from where I was digging?

Don't be daft.  It was three feet from where I was working, and I did voice my concern that Donald Trumpkin might end up getting a good roasting.

Did he check which way the wind was blowing?

There was a licked finger held up to the wind, but notwithstanding his Boy Scout endeavours, the smoke billowed across to me, blinding me at intervals.

Onto bed five, and the fire was blazing well.  The heat was such that I had turned my back on it, which was just as well, as a large bit of burning material hopped off the fire and onto my t-shirt, burning a sizeable hole in the material.  By now, the mascara was heading south thanks to the smoke, and the husband who was experiencing massive guilt, offered to dig over the last half of bed number six.  Conscious of his poorly neck, I said to him, 'You dig over and I'll pick the weeds out'.

This was all going rather well until the smoke wafted over again, and the two of us were temporarily blinded.  He had just lifted a large fork of soil, and I was about to grab a rogue thistle, when with eyes shut, he dropped the soil straight on my head.  So as well as trying to set fire to me, he had a fair attempt at burying me also.

How did he make it up to me lovely ladies?

McDonald's Chicken Legend, large fries and a strawberry milkshake.

Works for me...