Allotments are like kids. Take your eyes off them for five minutes and they run riot.
This weekend, while Unhusband was otherwise engaged, I spent a back-crunching few hours trying to remove the gardening equivalent of felt tip pen on the walls, from the strawberry patch. If only couch grass came out in the wash.
If you’ve never encountered couch grass, it’s the Godfather of all weeds. It sends its mafia of roots to all corners of the veg patch to choke the life out of anything edible. It’s so indestructible you can’t even chuck it on the compost heap, as it’ll only come back to life as, guess what, more couch grass. Spread that over your plot and you may as well give up trying to grow your own, and head to Tescos, or at least invest in a good chiropractor.
Apparently, the only organic way to eradicate couch grass is to incinerate it. Sod that. I carted it off to the weed pile (away from the plots) with the rest of the fruits of my neglect.
While I was busy eroding my lower vertebrae, J and D were diligently terrorising the local insect population.
‘Mummy, do you think this caterpillar’s a boy or a girl?’ said J, trying to get a good look.
Not being much of an entomologist, I suggested it could be both, though Google later informed me this wasn’t technically correct. Though by then J had already decided it was a boy.
When my back couldn’t take any more, we went to collect manure from a steaming, buzzing mountain. I had no idea there were so many stables so close to the M25.
‘Bleeurr, dog poo, no like it,’ declared D.
‘It’s horse poo,’ I told her.
‘Hairpoo. Wash hair,’ she replied.
Whatever. I just hope we get some strawberries this year.