There I was, a few days ago, picking raspberries and mange tout at the community allotment. It struck me that I’d done these same jobs last year, and that I had therefore, on and off, been going to said community allotment for more than a year. Sometimes it’s the little, physical activities that come to define a thing.
I’ve never been much of a gardener. Perhaps the women of my family gardened with enthusiasm, there were few tasks my awkward child self was allowed to do, and as a teen I was too busy with music, school work, boys… In my twenties I had a garden, but it was heavy clay soil and the only thing I was any good at growing, was slugs. I was popular with the hedgehogs though. 2 years on a boat with the odd, hardy pot plant, 3 years in a flat with no garden. The community allotment has been an opportunity to get my hands in the soil.
This year we’ve started putting pots outside the flat, getting some greenery going on an otherwise sterile corner. I remain a talentless gardener, but at the allotment there are always people who know what needs doing, and I have the fiddly fingers for harvesting.
Here is a song, because this is what popped into my head when picking the raspberries.