Ted The Shed, Chapter 10 - Rabbit, Rabbit Rabbit

In another seasonal episode of my memoir about my Dad's allotment, the snow comes and hungry rabbits scale rabbit-proof fences all over the allotment site, eating everything in their path. The allotment site's first female scarecrow - the Lady of Shallot - arrives, complete with a statement necklace of small onions.

Don't forget to check out the playlist of Ted the Shed, which is regularly updated.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed.

We're going to be listening to chapter 10 tonight,

Which is called Rabbit,

Rabbit,

Rabbit.

But before I begin,

Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Relax your shoulders.

Relax your hands.

Relax your jaw.

And you might like to gently close your eyes.

That's great.

Okay,

So I'll begin.

January 2011.

Rabbit,

Rabbit,

Rabbit.

Over Christmas and New Year,

It is too cold for Dad to venture out,

So he doesn't see the fairy lights on the shed.

It snows on and off and the lights arranged around the shed door glow unimpeded until 12th night when I take them down.

Then the snow vanishes.

We got used to its white blanket.

I visit the plot one afternoon and notice how very brown and bare it looks.

It's amazing how contrast affects the mind,

I think,

Doing a Mr.

M.

S.

I glance around the plot and frown.

Weren't my curly kale plants over there by the fence,

Just where those brown woody stalks are now?

I remember them green and sturdy,

Like little palm trees.

With this being our first year,

I hadn't expected much from them,

But they ended up delivering a good few portions of greenery,

Contributing to our five-a-day all through December.

Well,

They've gone.

It gives me a pang.

Well,

It's best to be stoical about allotment ups and downs.

As Rudyard Kipling says,

You must watch the things you gave your life to broken and stoop and build them up with worn-out tools.

Those neat attractive plants that survived both flood and mud were my favourites.

I think I know who done it,

Though.

A couple of weeks ago,

I saw tracks in the snow going up and down the paths and round and round inside most of the plots,

Even the ones with the sturdiest of fences.

It was like an Enid Blyton crime scene.

They'd left jobbies all over shop too,

Like the calling card of a particularly nasty psychopath.

I carry on with my plot inspection.

The globe artichoke plants look okay,

As do,

Miraculously,

The broad bean shoots that came through just before Christmas.

The everlasting spinach is surviving too.

Probably because I pegged a fleece tunnel over it for protection.

And in common with others of my acquaintance,

Rabbits obviously don't get hungry enough for turnips.

Those are still lolling about the plot like purple-faced boozers.

I'm not surprised.

Exciting though it was to see them grow,

We haven't managed to actually eat that many.

Since there's no kale to pick,

I go to see Dad for coffee.

He greets me at the door,

Wearing one of his Christmas presents from us,

A black sweatshirt printed with the name Ted the Shed in white.

You're wearing it,

I say.

I wasn't sure he would.

His eyes scan the pavement behind me.

Come in,

Come in,

He says.

I don't want any of the neighbours to see it.

They might get the wrong idea.

The wrong idea about what,

I ask,

Following him up the steep stairs to his flat.

I think it looks rather smart.

The lettering's a bit blinding,

He says,

And teeters off to the kitchen to make coffee.

He has cut the tops of all his socks because they had grown tight,

And soft beige cotton concertinas around his ankles.

He made his coffee tray out of a piece of plywood.

It has a shallow varnished rim and is lined with bright blue sticky black plastic.

It is just the right size for two mugs of coffee and two Jacob's Orange Club biscuits.

He deposits everything on the coffee table,

Also homemade,

And sits down with a sigh of relief.

Well,

I made it past January,

He says.

You've got the allotment for another year.

Great,

I say,

And tell him about the rabbits and about how they got into all the plots,

Even the substantially fenced ones.

He is delighted.

Just goes to show you can spend all the money you like and it won't do you the slightest bit of good.

We sip our drinks.

He makes coffee at just the right strength,

More than I can say for either Mr.

M.

S.

Or myself because we guesstimate the coffee to water ratio.

Dad measures it precisely with a plimsoll line on the cafetiere and a plastic scoop he has cut down to exactly the right size.

Anyway,

He says,

We can afford to lose 10% of our produce to rabbits.

10%,

I say,

Remembering my vanished cabbage and lettuce.

What if they forget their calculators?

It is the kind of joke he might make,

And he laughs.

I asked everyone how high rabbits jump,

But no one knew,

He says.

Well,

Now we do.

How about catching a bit of news?

Without waiting for an answer,

He presses his remote and the screen of his gigantic TV flickers into brightly coloured life.

He has an appetite for 24-hour news coverage,

Especially when there's a natural disaster on the cards.

There's always someone worse off than yourself,

He says,

Gratefully.

The matter of the rabbits,

I gather,

Is closed.

I screw up some tissue,

Spit on it and stuff it into my ears to take the edge off the news drumbeat.

While Dad's immersed in hurricane footage,

My thoughts drift back to our allotment and the most recent lesson it has taught me.

In winter,

Rabbits get hungry enough to eat even the plants they dislike.

On Valentine's Day,

I finally get around to making my scarecrow.

She is a raven,

Bin bag-haired beauty,

With a striped blouse and a statement necklace of shallots.

But when I go down to the plot to install her,

The ground is too hard.

I decide to store her in the shed for a little while,

Until it's a bit warmer.

But that's my story.

She has her own take on things.

On one side of the river lie long beds of turnips and of rye.

It is used as green manure,

That's why.

And past Quick-Fit,

The road runs by from wintry Camelotment,

Where gale-force winds and snowy showers have killed off all the cauliflowers,

And where the silent shed embowers the Lady of Shallot.

Only the postie walking early down the river path to Burley hears a song that echoes cheerily from the nearest shed,

Quite clearly,

Across bewintered Camelotment.

And by the moon,

Dog-walkers weary,

Bagging turds in uplands airy,

Listening whisper,

Tis the fairy Lady of Shallot.

There she sits by night and day,

Waiting for winter to go away.

She heard the one who made her say,

Her looks will fade if she should stray out onto frozen Camelotment.

One knows not what the weather may be,

And so she sits there steadily,

But cooped up in the shed,

Feels she,

The Lady of Shallot.

Through the window,

Most unclear,

In this the winter of the year,

Men in flat caps do appear,

And there she sees the A65 near,

Winding down to Camelotment.

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly council churls,

And tale of Dog M.

S.

Unfurls outside on Camelotment.

And then,

One day,

Near her shed eaves,

Some tools from out of a car are heaved,

And sun comes through the witch-elm leaves,

And flames upon the brazen greaves of Sir M.

S.

Lancelotment.

Up to the shed he boldly stumbles,

When asked to dig the earth he grumbles.

I can only stay an hour,

He mumbles,

On this freezing Camelotment.

His furrowed brow in sunlight glows,

On burnished tyres he usually goes.

Beneath his baseball cap there flows his greying hair and rose-red nose on perishing Camelotment.

From the bank and from the river,

The cold air really makes him shiver.

It's Brassic by this blinking river,

Sings Sir M.

S.

Lancelotment.

She leaves her seat,

She's lost her head,

She hops three paces through the shed.

A night like this she'd planned to wed and take unto her turnip bed on forsaken Camelotment.

But down she falls and flat she lies,

The window cracks from side to side.

I forgot I wasn't real,

Sighs the Lady of Shallott.

In the stormy east wind straining,

On other plots the workers waning,

The broad stream in its banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining over lonely Camelotment.

Bold Sir M.

S.

Is quite a flurried,

Has a bird got in that shed,

He worries,

And to the padlocked door he hurries to the Lady of Shallott.

And there she gives him quite a fright,

Lying robed in black and white,

That loosely blows from left to right,

Her skirt being made to catch the light,

Scare pests from Camelotment.

But undeterred he takes her hand,

And as he brings her out to stand,

He hears a crazed humming sound from the Lady of Shallott.

It's like a pop song,

Not quite holy,

Chanted loudly,

Chanted slowly.

By heck he breathes,

And holy moly,

And quickly pegs her in the lowly soil of Camelotment.

It's done,

He puts his tools away,

And lives to dig another day.

Relief,

It's been a bad spade day for Sir M.

S.

Lancelotment.

But he'll get over it,

Now she stands upon the parish council lands,

In rain and snow and river sands,

Holding sunlight in her hands on chilly Camelotment.

And though the birds poop on her dress,

And rain has made her face a mess,

She wears the smile of someone blessed,

The Lady of Shallott.

By Sir Alfred Lord Table-Tennyson.

To be continued.

Reviews

This book is so great and I’ve listened more than once. I’ve laughed out loud many times. So clever and dear. It has everything - it’s about family and aging and sickness and joy. It’s about life. And oh yes about gardening too. I highly recommend this book - it should win an insight timer reward!

What a charming and laugh-out- loud take on The Lady of Shallott! I also love the description of your dad’s coffee tray. Thank you Mandy💖✨

Thank you for being my early morning companion today. ✨☀️😀

I enjoy your perspective as you describe life's quirks and foibles.

So, did you and your dad really call your shed “Ted”? Seems a little odd to me. Especially since I’d think, the gardens are the main purpose for having an allotment … It’s such a fun story, Thanks Mandy!

Mandy!!! My favourite so far! The round the clock news… reminds me of my grandparents. The remake of Lady of Shallot… genius! And where can I buy a Ted the Shed jumper? I want one 😂I’m thoroughly enjoying your book and reading of it. Thankyou xx ❤️

Mandy, you are Hilarious! Love this so much😂🙏🏼❤️