Yes, we have no potatoes

And I thought I’d been so careful. I spent time chosing my varieties painstakingly – pest-resistant, blight-resistant, disease-free, easy to grow – and having consulted just about every potato-grower on the allotment as to where best to chit them – Bernard keeps his in the study, John’s are carefully stored in egg boxes on the windowsill of his back bedroom while Henry, rather worryingly, suggests I consult my allotment book – I plump for the cool and bright, yet frost-free, garage windowsill.

Shirley and Gerald, who’ve been growing potatoes on the allotments for decades, helped shepherd me through the labyrinth of first earlies, second earlies, Desirees and Maris Pipers at the Malmesbury Potato Day sale last month, warning me off the tempting-looking Jersey Royals (I do like a nice salad potato) and steering me towards the – well, I wish I could remember which ones they steered me towards, but the mice appear to have eaten my carefully written labels, too. At least, I’m hoping it was mice. The alternative is just too creepy to contemplate < < SHUDDER > >. Well, I suppose it’s not too late to start again...

It’s that funny time of year between Winter and Spring when there’s nothing much going on and everybody seems to feel a little bit gloomy. I can’t help thinking that this must have something to do with the decision to make February just that little bit shorter than all the other months. It’s too wet to dig, too early to plant anything, too cold to stay out for very long – I even saw the odd flurry of snow earlier on this week. It’s the sort of weather when you feel you ought to be making a rich, nourishing soup or be safely inside, stirring a glistering vat of molten marmalade in a warm, fuggy kitchen… Except I realize I’ve missed the Seville oranges, too.

I have a sinking feeling it’s going to turn out to be one of those years…

But of course there’s always something going on in Great Somerford. It’s that kind of place. Doubtless thinking of a way of cheering everybody up in the midst of the cold, dank bleakness of this time of year, Carol and Maritsa have decided to put on a village concert in the Community Room with an exclusive line-up of local talent at the end of the month. There’ll be singing, there’ll be folk music, there’ll be one or two of Mary’s famous, wonderful, monologues, there’ll be a bit of Jazz, there’ll be more singing… I tell you, it's not to be missed. No stone has been left unturned to seek out local acts of all description.

Thankfully, no one has yet got wind of the singing dog…

Yet...



...I think perhaps he needs a little more work on the piano part, though...

Green Shoots of Recovery?

Not in my house, I’m afraid. Brown stumps of doom, more like. I was so relieved to see my neighbour’s car back home from holiday yesterday. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to be able to be able to keep this poor vestige of a living thing, living.

Before he set off on holiday three weeks ago, Mr A (who I’m not going to name since it feels a bit disrespectful, and some people are more careful of their privacy than I am) came over with three tiny root cuttings which he’d lovingly nurtured into something that looked vaguely like independent life. Tiny stalks stood up proudly in what looked like better quality compost than I normally use, and the almost imperceptible first leaf buds were almost visible. Almost. Mr A looked pleased with this progress. Could I possibly look after them until he came back?

The trouble is, ever since the allotment book (which I’m not trying to plug in any way – although have you got your copy yet? I only mention this because I noticed they’ve only got two left in the shop and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss out… ) people assume I know about plants. Well I’m afraid I don’t. Or rather, I do sort of know a bit about vegetable growing – in theory, at least – however I seem to be cursed with the polar opposite of green fingers and everything that comes within my reach, er, dies. Sorry to be blunt about it, but there really isn’t a more tactful way of putting it. My husband calls me the Plant Butcher of Great Somerford. And that's when he's being nice.

But somehow it seemed a bit churlish to say no.

I sat it on the windowsill, watered it whenever I remembered, even tried a spot of conversation occasionally. It started to whither almost immediately – virtually as soon as the sound of Mr A’s car disappearing down the lane faded away. Not enough sun, I wondered? Moved it to the south-facing kitchen window… a leaf promptly fell off. The days ticked by, any hint of green the plants had once had gradually dwindled away and, short of sticking it on a life-support machine I couldn’t realistically see a way of prolonging its life any further. Perhaps it was life, Jim, but it was certainly not as we know it. You can imagine my relief when I spotted Mr A’s car neatly parked back on his drive this morning.

I dashed round bearing the pot, the plants possibly performing their few last acts of photosythesis and rapped on the door. No answer. Rapped again, a bit louder. Still no answer. I really didn’t want to risk the twenty-yard dash back home – it was drizzling slightly and I wasn’t at all sure the plants were up to the journey. Finally, Mr A appeared at the door in his dressing gown, looking not best pleased. I’m not sure whether it was the sight of his beloved plants or the fact that I’d just got him out of the bath.

Had a good holiday? I ventured…

(Actually, I'm exaggerating as usual. 'Mr A' was actually very nice about it. I could tell he was a bit disappointed, though...)