The Good Life?

So after four years on the local council's waiting list we have finally made it. We are in possession of an allotment in North London. Joy to the world. What I hope to do with this blog is document the various trials and tribulations faced by two pretty green, green fingered allotmenteers.

The idea of becoming more self sufficient certainly appeals to many of us these days, particularly if like us, you live in the midst of the urban sprawl. Growing, picking, cooking and eating our own fresh vegetables is an exciting prospect and something me and my partner have long dreamed about. However now it's suddenly become a reality, the scale of the responsibility is beginning to hit home.

My partner is the big ideas man. As soon as Janet from the allotments called to say we had rather miraculously scaled the top of the waiting list, he was out scouring the locale for every piece of literature on growing your own and doing it yourself. I admit I haven't read up much on this so far, preferring to be second in command. One week into our new hobby, our flat is fit to burst with all manner of cardboard boxes, testament to the fact that the internet really does sell you everything these days.

We have a brand new set of tools, some of which I am yet to identify. We have a push lawnmower. We have matching wellington boots. We have matching gardening gloves. We have a plethora of seeds to plant and are soon to have delivered asparagus and rhubarb plants. We'll be rivalling Kew Gardens by the summer.

I have a fond, misty ideal of dabbling in self sufficiency. Already I've got the theme tune from The Good Life on a loop inside my head. It has been pointed out several times already that I'm much more Margo than Felicity Kendal's Barbara, but we'll ignore that for now. 

The reality is not looking impossibly cute in some rag bag clothes whilst sipping a glass of Peapod '75. It's actually flipping hard work. I ache in places I didn't know I had. What makes it worse is that we seem to be the only people on the allotments working hard. I can't wait to get to the point so many of our neighbours have reached where they can treat their patch as a social space for nattering, pottering and emptying the contents of their thermos flasks. I fear though that by the time we get there, I won't be fit for mulch.


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