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particularly judgemental pair of old spinsters on
Location, Location, Location
. But I could
tell they liked it - they clucked contentedly, a surprisingly heart-melting sound, and settled
down for bed. It made me feel ineffably proud to watch them, like an expectant father and I
left them to it.
Within a couple of days the coop had made them contented enough to start laying and I re-
turned home one Sunday to find Maurice coyly hiding his hands behind his back.
'Guess what I've got, Daddy?' he chuckled, and before I could answer (the lad just cannot
keep a secret), 'EGGS!'
He showed me one, which surprisingly had a supermarket 'Best Before' date stamped on it.
'Oh poo!' he said, 'I've picked up the wrong one!' And off he went to find a 'home-grown'
example. Having access to one's own eggs may be small beer in the grand scheme of things,
man cannot live on eggs alone, but it never fails to put a smile on my face. It's just one of
those things that you just can't be cynical about or bored by. And it made us all feel more a
part of the countryside we were surrounded by; we could look our farmer neighbours full in
the eye from now on.
If only everything else was as rewarding as my ladies. I am constantly amazed how many
times people compare my life with
The Good Life
- I mean, it's a 'good life' don't get me
wrong, but
The Good Life
was a sitcom about a married couple who drop out of the rat race
and live off their own land in suburban Surrey. Tom, the male character, was a relentlessly
chirpy, optimistic individual. He wore jumpers with holes in them. I am not Tom.
Of course, that doesn't mean that I don't knuckle down and work the land when I have to, I
do, though not optimistically or cheerfully and definitely not in shabby knitwear. The com-
bination of spring heat and regular moisture meant that the garden was running wild, which
also meant that Natalie had to call me in to lend a hand. I was hoping it would be more moral
support than physical, but after the damage left by the receding winter's scorched earth policy
and the now violently rampant spring, I didn't have high hopes. Manuel was also roped in to
tame the spring garden and while he worked like an old-fashioned African explorer machete-
ing his way through the jungle, it meant that I was awarded the trickier tasks like writing
labels and mending the gate for what had become known as 'my' allotment.
Lots of people have allotments, or potagers, these days as they tick all the right boxes -
healthy, organic foodstuffs, a sense of community, local produce, exercise, etc. - but does
anyone really know what they're doing? It strikes me that people talk an awful lot of guff
about loam quality and shade while secretly crossing their fingers behind their backs. I'll ad-
mit I'm not particularly green-fingered, but so far my allotment results have been repeatedly
on the disappointing side and so when spring rolls around and once again I have to dig the
thing over, I do so with a sense of impending disappointment, knowing that the whole exer-
cise while on the one hand being worthy, will only bring forth a crushing sense of boredom
and disillusion, like a Coldplay album or nonalcoholic lager.
