I want to dig the earth until my back hurts.
I want to burn away my tyre of flab by planting, watering and harvesting my own food.
But there are two obstacles preventing me from joining the [Tom and Barbara] good life.
1) my garden is diddy and what garden there is is occupied by a big ass motherfucking sycamore tree that won't share its water no matter how much muscle I put on it. [have I been watching too much of The Wire?] & the council -- who I phoned this morning -- are inundated with panicky middle-aged and middle-class types under the illusion that growing a few spuds and sprouts is going to cushion the economic pick-pocketing to come.
Like me.
The woman at the council laughed a little too sarcastically for my liking when I asked her if there is an allotment available.
In much the same sardonic way that I smile to myself when a mediocre band send me a song and inquire about airplay.
Do they have any idea how many songs I get every week?
Do I have any idea how many anxious 30-somethings are putting their names on allotment waiting lists?
They're the new schools, see.
An allotment.
Tescos, are you reading this?
2) The other problem is this... by all accounts this is the wrong time to start a garden. People don't plant stuff in September. They harvest stuff in September. Taking up the growing of my own vegetables will entail patience. And patience is not my middle name. I get a notion in my head and I want to act on it. I am impulsive like that. In 18 months time, when I've fallen under the spell of nude hang-gliding, an allotment might not seem like such an attractive proposition. It would, no doubt, be more aesthetically pleasing, though.
I wanted to share that with you.
Blogs have become the wall that I bang my head against.
I'm not angry and frustrated all of the time.
Just whenever I decide to tap crap out of my keyboard.
Have a good day, y'all.
©Adam Walton
2010
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