Ted The Shed, Chapter 12 - A Friend In Weed

As we embark on our second year of allotmenteering, Dad and Mr Mandy Sutter are nowhere to be seen. I talk to some inspiring passers-by, erect a bean tower, and try to rope reluctant friends into helping me clear the plot.

Please feel free to listen in at any point! All the chapters stand alone as well as being part of an ongoing story.

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.

I don't know if you've been listening for the whole way along or if you've just joined us,

But I'd like to thank you very much either way.

I always love it when people listen to my recordings,

But I perhaps love people listening to this particular book most of all as I've written it and it's my memoir about my dear old dad.

We've actually arrived at the second year of allotmenteering.

I'm going to read you a chapter called A Friend in Weed,

But before I begin,

Please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your bed or chair,

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and just slacken your jaw a little bit.

You might want to close your eyes.

That's lovely.

I'll begin.

Late April 2011.

We begin our second calendar year of allotmenteering.

There is no fanfare from Dad or Mr MS,

But I decide to celebrate one Sunday by buying some six-foot garden canes and going down to the plot to erect a bean tower.

The main news at the plot is that A.

The tarp has been in place for three weeks and B.

The fallen witch elm,

As yet unattended by the parish council,

Is starting to attract attention.

The trouble is it's close enough to the fence for passing male dogs to pee on.

Passing male men would probably like to do the same,

But convention dictates that they can only eye it and ask questions.

What happened to your tree?

Asks one,

Stopping.

His female companion,

Who has walked on ahead,

Turns and sighs.

It fell down,

I reply,

Enjoying rewarding a dumb question with a dumb answer.

I'm preoccupied with thoughts of whether beans would be safe from the rabbits if I surrounded them with a double layer of chicken wire.

The loss of my kale plants in January still hurts.

The man brightens as if I've said something interesting.

He is wearing a cloth hat that begs for corks.

He continues to hover.

I relent.

It blew down,

Actually,

I offer.

The woman frowns.

She is probably wrestling with impatience.

Why does he always have to talk to people?

Has he forgotten it's Sunday and Tesco shuts at four?

But the man goes on gazing at the fallen tree.

It seems to exert a hold on him.

The woman stands where she stopped.

To drift back would be to condone his dawdling.

To move on would be rude.

Besides,

Her rationalizations will be kicking in now.

I suppose it is his walk too,

And his weekend off work.

He's got some right to do what he pleases.

I have to admit I'm on her side,

If there were sides,

That is.

So I offer no further information.

They might never get their pork chops and broccoli otherwise.

Also,

It's chilly and I'm busting to erect my bean tower.

But I don't move away,

Because what kind of miserable cuss can't stop for a word with a well-meaning passerby?

The three of us stand on,

Held in place by invisible force fields.

Then she glances at her watch and gives a little sigh.

It's a move I admire.

She has made herself clear without stooping to harangue him in public.

The man,

Obviously adept at decoding her gestures,

Nods and steps away from the fence.

He looks resigned.

Then he makes an extraordinary remark.

A good bushman,

That's what you need.

A good bushman would turn that tree into logs in no time.

I am thrilled by this remark,

Conjuring as it does a vision of the Australian outback.

I'm reassured to know that my sense of hat corks wasn't misplaced.

My mind skips ahead.

Perhaps the council will indeed send a bushman who will whittle down some of the thicker twigs into little wooden animals,

Carve a slim branch into a flute and teach me to play a tune on it.

Later,

A killjoy will tell me that a bushman is a kind of sore.

But for now I stand,

Lost in a dream.

Then I realise that the couple has gone.

I miss them.

I liked the unexpected window on the world that they opened.

But thoughts of the scarlet emperors of the future are waiting to rush in and soon I am back where I belong,

In the security of a more British fantasy about vegetables.

The following day someone does come from the council.

He snips a few leaves off the fallen elm and writes to Dad to say that it has been made safe.

Seems it's up to us to shift the main bulk of the thing,

To chop it up and dispose of the wood.

I break the news to Dad over the phone,

Thinking this will provoke him into firing off another of his letters.

Fair enough,

He says.

I blink.

Before he took on this allotment,

I'd have said I knew my Dad pretty well.

But these days I just can't guess what will incense him and what he'll take like a lamb.

Mr MS sometimes surprises too.

When told the news,

He mentions his circular saw plan again,

As if it is actually a reality.

In the event,

Dad finds a suitable saw in his toolbox and the following weekend he and Mr MS form a two-man chain gang with Dad sawing and Mr MS carting the logs to our camper van in the wheelbarrow.

Dad doesn't appear to be pushing himself too much,

Which makes the whole scenario more relaxing for idle bystanders like my good self.

I'm impressed.

I feel disloyal that I wished for a bushman when,

As it turns out,

Two bushed men can do the job just as well.

We stow the lovely logs in our garden shed for winter.

Then Dad and Mr MS disappear from the allotments completely.

Mr MS says he is busy with work,

That old chestnut,

And Dad has a big project in hand.

To address a recently increased incidence of funny turns,

He has bought a blood pressure monitor and is taking his own readings many times a day,

Entering them on a huge spreadsheet and including detailed mitigating factors that he feels his GP may be interested in.

When invited onto the plot,

He says,

Hmm,

I don't know.

I've got a hell of a lot going on here.

I sympathise,

But a hell of a lot is going on at the plot also,

Mainly involving the exponential growth of weeds I thought we'd seen off for good last year.

The whole shebang will need to be dug over and weeded anew.

In Dad's absence,

And even in his presence,

I feel responsible for this.

I do a lengthy stint digging up ground,

Elder.

The task is dispiriting.

It feels like reinventing the wheel,

Alone.

In the past,

When I've mentioned the allotment to friends,

They've said things like,

Ooh,

Lucky you.

How rewarding,

Eating your own veg and all that fresh air and exercise.

You would have thought then that they'd be keen to spend a day outdoors with me,

Digging.

But no,

Despite the benefits they list,

When I ask for help,

Their nostrils flare and they come up with a variety of wafer-thin excuses.

Of course,

It's no good asking friends who do have allotments,

Or even big gardens.

All they're able to offer is a shoulder clasp in silent solidarity at this difficult time of year.

But I have a friend whose kitchen wall I helped damp-proof with bitumen 10 years ago,

The vilest act of DIY I have ever participated in.

It is time to call in the favour.

She grudgingly agrees to come round the following Sunday morning.

On the day,

She turns up an hour late,

Badly hungover and in need of breakfast.

I make her toast and coffee and assure her that the peace and tranquillity of the allotment will make her feel better.

There's rarely anyone else down there,

I say,

And the sound of birdsong is healing.

Unfortunately,

When we finally get down there,

A plot neighbour is drowning out all the birdsong by going at it with a petrol rotavator.

Sorry,

He shouts above the din,

But I've only got this contraption for 90 minutes,

So I'd better get on.

My friend shows great strength of character for the first five of these minutes,

Then says,

I can't stand this,

I need more coffee.

When we return after three more coffees,

Our neighbour has gone and it is lovely and quiet.

We begin clearing.

To hand it to my friend,

She does manage to turn a patch of soil to a fine tilth.

Unfortunately,

It is only two foot square,

Which given the size of the allotment is about as much use as a pastry spade.

Look,

I say,

Don't sweat the small stuff,

Just get the big weeds out and give it a rough digging over.

Oh,

But you know,

I've got a bad back,

She says.

This is the first I've heard of any bad back,

But it's a trump card.

I mutter bitter condolences and turn back to digging out dandelion roots that go halfway to Australia.

The following week,

When another friend volunteers to help,

I'm not expecting much.

But this second friend announces on arrival that of all garden tasks,

Weeding is her favourite because she loves to see cleared soil.

And she works like a Trojan.

We dig up nettle after nettle and Rose Bay willow herb after Rose Bay willow herb.

My friend seems to need no breaks.

I offer her tea from the plastic mug I keep in the shed for visitors.

I'd rather get on,

She says.

Her work ethic is phenomenal,

Or else she saw me empty the dead spider out of the mug.

An idea strikes me.

Would you like to get more involved,

I ask?

Take over part of the plot,

Perhaps?

Think how rewarding it would be eating your own veg and all the fresh air and exercise you'd get.

She gives it two seconds thought.

Nah,

She says.

I console myself by making a bonfire.

It produces a smoke cloak that drifts east,

Enfolding the couple diagonally opposite.

They move all around their plot to escape it and eventually leave,

Coughing.

You should have let the damp stuff dry out first,

Says my friend.

Now,

Are you going to help me dig up the rest of this nettle root or not?

That fire will keep going without you standing there watching it,

You know.

Give me a minute,

I say.

Did I ever tell you I've got a bad back?

A bad back?

To be continued.

Reviews

I am looking forward to seeing again as tonight your lovely voice put me right out! Many thanks as always Mandy💜🕊️✨

lol! Too bad a real bushman didn’t show up! Maybe he had a bad back! 🥰

I Love, Love, Love your humor and way with words!! It’s such a treat to listen to Ted the Shed!! 🙏🙏🙏😀😀😀

I could listen every night, and do! You are healing my inner child with your bed time stories - your voice is so calming and warm. I’m very grateful to have these, thankyou xx

Dear Mandy, Thank you very much for this wonderful story, I have enjoyed it immensely. Can’t wait for the next chapters! Liliana from Mexico City.

Ooh, I’d love to help in the Allotment! But yay for your second friend!
Happy 2025!

Rich humor, as usual! I wish each chapter was an hour long, but grateful for all you have 😂 thank you, Mandy!❤️🙏🏼

Another great chapter, Mandy, thank you! Did you know back then that you wanted to write this wonderful story, or did it occur to you later? 🙏🙏🙏

The story keeps getting better and better! I'm very much enjoying your allotment tales.