String and The Allotment Nazis

Potatoes are my favourite allotment crop.  The books say they should be planted on Good Friday, that you need seed potatoes, a fork, a spade and some string.

My seed potatoes were planted today (a day late) with a fork, a rake and no string. Good Friday, is about the right time of year to plant them and it's a day off, so there is plenty of time.  I plant 4  or 5 rows and don't buy a potato all year.  The historical reason for Good Friday planting, is much more superstitious.  Potatoes were introduced into the UK in the 16th Century by Spanish Conquistadors and because they were not mentioned in the Bible, many people thought they were the Devil's food.  The Irish Catholics, however, realised the value of these cheap, easy to grow beauties and so they  insisted they be planted on Good Friday and watered with holy water.  Potatoes are a thirsty crop and so any kind of water, holy or sinful is very much appreciated.

As I'm not a Catholic and not adverse to eating Devil's food (I'm particularly fond of Devil's Food Cake) it doesn't worry me that my potatoes are a day late.

I don't understand the string, though.  I've seen the pictures.  You are meant to make a string line to help you get your potatoes in a perfectly straight line.

Do you get more potatoes if they are in a perfectly straight line?  Does a line of string guarantee that your potato plants grow out of their seeds in a perfectly straight way?  Is it really impossible to dig a straight trench without the aid of a line of string?  What happens if you place the string at an angle?  

Probably, allotment holders are trying to emulate farmers, who plant their potatoes in straight lines because their tractor and plough is good at straight lines. My favourite gardening book is by Geoff Hamilton, who was the first gardener to suggest that a kitchen garden style of allotment may produce better results and that straight lines are not always necessary.  

If I don't grow in straight lines I won't win any prizes but I'm not planning to.  I want to grow enough food to feed my family and if I have wonky rows and a few weeds then it's fine if I have enough potatoes to last me all year.  It does bother the allotment Nazi's though.  They will be there soon, inspecting the plots, in their suits with their clipboards and absolutely no idea.  They will look at my plot and put a tick next to weeds, a tick next to wonky rows and issue a letter.  The letter will say, "it appears you are not cultivating your plot, as it appears to be a little weedy/scruffy.  Maybe, you are finding it too difficult to manage and would like to give up part of your plot to someone on the waiting list."  

Local authorities have been obliged to provide allotments if there is demand for them, since 1887.  The standard allotment size was 10 rods (253m2), as this was considered the size required to feed a family.  I have half a plot and it's just about big enough.  Over the last few years the Allotment Nazi's have been on a mission to get the waiting list down by intimidating existing holders into giving up a bit of their plot.  The allotment next to me has been divided into 8ths.  Mostly, people with these small plots give up quite quickly.  My new neighbour won't fall foul of the men with clipboards, though.  They have string.

Well, I've never noticed that before.

I've been offline for a couple of days because of a tiny button on my laptop that I've never seen before.  My laptop kept telling me that I had no wireless but it was working on my phone.  I tried turning the computer off.  I tried pressing Fn &F8.  I tried shouting at it.  I tried crying.  I tried phoning the person who  sold me the computer.  And then when I had finally given up and was trying to think of a different way of saying, "Johnny is average at music"(writing reports is probably the most tedious writing you can do!)  my thumbs strayed to stroking the front of the laptop and I discovered a little button.  On closer inspection the button was in the off position so I tried turning it on and hey presto I have Internet connection.

I wonder how many other things are there that I've never noticed before.  This morning I noticed a huge cobweb in the corner of my bedroom that must have been there for a while.  I hope it's been there for a while because the alternative explanation involves a giant invisible spider.

If you look up, you often see things that you've never noticed before.  In London on Wednesday we spotted a couple of signs that we've never seen before.  The first caused the Long Suffering Husband to write down the address so he could Google it.

It was on the front door of 7 Meard Street.  I thought it was a sensible sign for anyone who lived in the middle of Soho but it turns out that it was put there by Sebastian Horsley, who was an artist; obsessed with crucifixion, a writer; with a sex column in The Observer, a male prostitute, dandy and liar.

The second sign was the best piece of graffiti I've seen in a long time.

Why Women Don't Hate Me

Today's Twitter storm has been over an article in the Daily Mail by the uber-confident Samantha Brick.  Many people thought it must have been a submission for a column on Sunday (April Fool) that had been bumped, due to space but her previous columns suggest otherwise.  The article was titled,  "There are downsides to looking this pretty: Why women hate me because I'm beautiful."

The terrifying thing about this piece is that she looks a bit like me.

She claims that she gets sent bottles of champagne from the captain of aircraft she travels on, men rush up to her in the street and give her flowers, a man at the railway station paid for her railway ticket and women are forever fearful that their husbands will fall madly in love with her.  Because of this, women, apparently hate her.

It may be possible that women hate her (although looking at Twitter, it seems as though men hate her and women can barely be bothered to comment) because she is a fantasist.  She may have watched an Impulse advert and thought that it was her that the men were giving flowers to.

Men Just Can't Help Acting on Impulse

Despite looking quite like Samantha Brick, no man has ever rushed up and given me flowers, although if they tried I would run in the other direction very fast. Men have tried to give me other kind of plants but you should never accept a courgette from a man, especially when you have grown a glut of them yourself.

I've watched the films where a man sends over the bottle of Champagne to the attractive woman at the other table.  Wouldn't it be lovely to live in a world where  we dressed for dinner, called each other darrrling, tipped the hat check girl and weren't suspicious that the champagne bottle had been spiked with Rohypnol?  Last week I walked into a pub and a handsome man stood up and said, "Sit down, I'll get your drink." It's because I'm so attractive, I know but what was my reply?  "Sit down, Dad, I can get my own drink, I'm a grown up now you know!"

Would you let a stranger buy your train ticket?  I don't even like the person behind me at the train station knowing where my ticket it to.

Women don't hate me.  I'm not attractive (even if I look a bit like Samantha Brick).  It's because sometimes I have dirt under my fingernails, I'm happy to pay my own way, I can grow my own courgettes (or flowers if I choose), I eat chocolate, I don't get self righteous about the fact I go to the gym 'even when I don't want to' (probably because I don't!),  I don't think other women are out to get me because I am about to steal their husbands.

Or maybe I have all this wrong and I am the most loathed woman in the country.  (Samantha Brick lives in France)

Holiday Bickering

When you are at school every day, the holiday's shimmer on the horizon like an Oasis, just slightly out of reach.  The first few days of a school holiday are spent in pyjama defence mode.  Don't get dressed.  Don't do anything.  Don't even get out of bed.  Watch stupid TV.  Eat rubbish food.

Then the weekend is over.

As an adult, there are still plenty of things to do:  Lie in bed, read a book, knit, practise the piano, read a bit more, clean the house, do some ironing, walk the dog, go for a swim, dig the allotment, go for a coffee, read a bit more, make a cake, wash up, clean out a cupboard that you haven't been able to shut for the last 6 weeks, paint your nails, clean the bath, have a bath, go for a swim, have a sauna, go to the pub.  In fact the list is endless.  But when you are a child and you've spent 2 days in your pyjamas, finished the one small piece of homework and watched the Wizards of Waverley Place for the 8th time boredom starts to set in.

That's when a sister is particularly useful.  When I was a child, my sister and I used to have some amazing squabbles in the holidays.  I remember both of us falling down the stairs as we fought over a pair of knickers.  I often used to wonder why my mum didn't get more involved as we screamed and shouted at each other.  Now, I know that like I was this morning, she was probably hiding in her room, pulling the duvet over her head and just having to read another chapter rather than risk taking sides.

The Long Suffering Husband's sister is meant to have held a knife to his throat during one long school holiday.  He doesn't remember it but their old neighbour used to swear it was true.

Squabbling has changed so much.  No death threat were made in my house this morning.  There was no wrestling or falling down the stairs.  No knives were wielded.  Oh no, something much worse happened.

He threatened to delete her as his Facebook friend.

Then he deleted her.

So she hacked into his account and accepted herself as his friend again.

After this happened 4 times he was really mad.  I was thinking I would have to go and lock away the knives but I forgot that we live in a house full of musical instruments.  Piano was thumped, recorders were blown, drums banged.

Phew.