Goodbye crap week, hello spring.

Off the plot, it’s been a fairly shite week: a broken (painfully expensive) molar*, chicken pox – and subsequent sleep deprivation – followed by nits (not me, I hasten to add.) And last night – with chicken pox finally under control and ‘normal’ sleeping patterns resumed – the dog woke up at 5am and proceeded to shit out half the contents of the neighbour’s dustbin over the lounge floor, followed by the other half an hour later. Also, in the lounge. Oh, and he also knocked over a load of tomato seedlings. He’s currently in the dog house – which happens to be where the rest of us live too, so I guess we’re stuck with him.

In the grand scheme of things these are just minor irritations.  The kids will be fine, and the lounge needed decorating anyway – though ideally not with a dog’s arse.

At least I’ve got the allotment to keep me sane. On the plot, it’s looking vaguely like spring. Apart from the weather, obviously. But now I’ve cleared away some weeds, the strawberries are beginning to flower, the rhubarb is stretching into life, and raspberry shoots are poking through the soil.  I managed to sow a few peas and some salad leaves this week, and also some watercress. I’ve only just discovered that you don’t need a babbling brook running through your garden to grow watercress – although if the monsoon continues, I may well end up with one anyway.

And best of all the polytunnel is finally up. The ground inside is pretty sodden and compacted, so I’ve been digging like mad trying to turn it into something that doesn’t look like seed suicide. I can’t believe I’m so excited about a polytunnel (yeah, I should get out more.)  I even moved a few seedlings in there just to see what would happen, and they’ve survived two nights. This can mean only one thing: it’s spring. Kind of. Yesterday was the March Equinox – the day of the year when night and day are the same length, which means it’s now officially spring. That can’t be hail outside, then.

*Dental bills – wtf?  I could have bought another polytunnel for the price of a teeny bit of broken enamel.

We could always sell the house and move in here:

 

 

About Becky Dickinson

Mum of three. Writer, blogger, grower. Trying to keep my head above the compost heap.

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Comments

  1. I think I know why I don’t have a dog now! maybe he ate the rhubarb

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