002: The Allotment Diaries

Tree-huggers, trowels and composting toilets

...not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house.
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
(Puck, Act 5 Scene 1)

Owen heads down to the plot early with Etty this morning so I can sort the house out a bit. The mess is like a fungus, constantly mushrooming and emerging in places that were seemingly tidy four minutes prior. The prime culprit is the play kitchen which has all manner of accessories and accoutrements which seem to be breeding. I stack the dishwasher and cook some spinach pasta with pesto and pine nuts for lunch, using the tubs from the chinese takeaway as lunchboxes. Etty has leftover baked beans, some sausage and plain pasta in her lunchbox. Très chic.

It's 1pm by the time I’m ready. Toby gets strapped into the pram and I nip to Co-op for some cider and paprika crisps. It’s only a small detour, really. Then we wend our way over, through the top field and hedgerow lanes to our allotment site. There’s more cars than I’ve ever seen parked up, and a mature lady in a pink gilet is having an animated chat outside the composting toilet with Vespa man, who, quite frankly, is living out my 16y/old Vespa-owning dream well into his sixties.

I’m greeted by a butterfly at our plot – Etty and Owen took facepaints down with them and have been experimenting on each other. Owen has three large red blobs of paint on his face, and I’m now next in line. Etty wants me to be a butterfly ‘like me mummy’. I convince her that what she actually wants to paint is my foot, whilst I eat lunch and have a drink. She obliges, making out as if it was her idea afterall. Six-month-old Toby also gets attacked with a green sponge. I comment to Owen that ‘we look like something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.

Re-construction continues on our plot, with beds getting rearranged and new planks put down to create a pathway which runs in an L shape. Owen has also made a start on a mud-kitchen for the smaller gardeners among us. I start to weed the asparagus bed and accidentally lop one bit of sprouting asparagus off with my trowel. ‘Watch what you’re doing’ says Owen. I get bored of weeding shortly after this and take Etty for a walk down to the river.

There’s a young orchard that runs adjacent to the river, and Etty takes it upon herself to run up to each tree individually, give it a hug, and tell it that she loves it. ‘I love you tree’ she proclaims. I wonder where she got this idea from – a book? Nursery? I too, am a tree-hugger, but not in this literal sense. I spot an gnarly Oak at the edge of the orchard and suggest we tell the ‘great-grandad’ tree that we love him too, as he’s been here a long time, and has seen a lot. Nettles crowd his base, so we stand at a respectful distance and tell the Oak that we love him.

Back at the plot I announce I’m going to the toilet and encourage Etty to go with me. She demurs, opting instead for the potty, and is thrilled when her wee gets thrown onto the compost heap.

The (adult) toilet at this allotment site is a composting one which, in essence, is just a large potty. When I arrive I’m confronted by the lady in the pink gilet, who has propped its door open with a bin and is tending to her raised bed directly opposite. ‘Is it out of order?’ I ask. ‘No, go in, but aim well as I’ve just mopped the floor.’ I do as I’m told, and, once relieved, am asked ‘if I managed it’ by the pink gilet lady. ‘Just about’ I reply, not confessing that my pelvic floor is now shot to pieces and so I genuinely did have to concentrate to avoid weeing on the floor. Keen to change topic, I ask pink gilet lady how she ended up with the toilet responsibilities. ‘Did you volunteer?’ I ask. ‘No, I was appointed’ she explains. I wonder what the difference is, and whether or not she genuinely had no choice in the matter. ‘I consider it doing my bit for this wonderful place’ she says. ‘Yes, it is pretty wonderful’ I say. ‘Thanks for doing your bit.’