Ted The Shed, Chapter 14 - Velveteen Visitor

It is summer 2011. Unrealistic TV gardening programmes become addictive and Mandy has an injury that prevents her from working on the plot. She must learn to sit and enjoy the delights of nature - like the mole who is digging up all her vegetables and the three little pigs who arrive on a nearby plot and eat everything in sight.

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

Transcript

Hello it's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed.

We've reached the early summer of 2011 and tonight's chapter takes place in early June and it's called Velveteen Visitor.

But before I begin,

Please go ahead,

Make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your bed or your chair,

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and just loosen up that jaw.

That's lovely.

So if you're ready,

I'll begin.

Early June 2011.

Early summer brings with it a slew of TV gardening programs.

Before getting an allotment,

My eyes skipped automatically across the listings for these programs as though they weren't there.

I knew who Alan Titchmarsh was because he was born in the next street to ours and he sometimes comes to switch on the Christmas lights.

And everyone's heard of Monty Don,

The welly wearing woman's crumpet and an eloquent speaker and writer about mental health.

But as to what either of them did when they got down and dirty,

I had no idea.

But one pleasant evening when Dad and Mr.

MS are washing up in the kitchen,

I find myself still sitting on the settee 20 minutes into Gardener's World,

The remote gone limp in my hand.

Carol Klein's segment is on.

I realise I am coming to admire her passion for her garden,

Her discernment in hiring interesting looking men to finesse Bush and Hedge and her roping in of the camera shy Mr.

Carol Klein for the heavy work.

I also love the scenes in her shed where she is found in the middle of the night,

Pricking out and potting seedlings and topping her pots off with a layer of grit,

Making beautiful graveled oblongs like miniature Zen gardens.

I have no idea why she does this,

But I know a pleasing ritual when I see one.

I realise that I mustn't get too carried away by TV gardening,

Of course.

It's sheer fantasy to believe that our allotment will ever look like Monty Don's vegetable garden at Longmeadow,

Even when riddled with the black gold that is currently being cooked up under our Axminster carpet lidded compost heap.

If I want relevant gardening tips,

I should probably consult one of the taciturn old gimmers down at the allotment.

Nevertheless,

I make a resolution to watch the whole series of Gardener's World.

This is dangerous territory,

I know.

I'll soon be listening to Gardener's Question Time on BBC Radio 4,

A place from which few return.

Dad and Mr MS come in.

Neither of them will have any truck with gardening programmes,

So I offer to change the channel.

I suppose we'd better sit through a bit of the news,

Says Dad,

Gloomily.

Mr MS watches the news with interest,

But it soon turns out there is nothing of relevance to Dad.

In other words,

No footage of natural disasters,

Nor any science news.

Blinking politicians,

He says,

When Gordon Brown comes on.

They're all the same.

Ordinary people trying to do a difficult job,

Mutters Mr MS,

Who is a member of the Labour Party.

Would you like a cup of tea,

Ted?

It's often difficult to find programmes that Dad will enjoy when he's at our house.

Unlike him,

We don't have Sky TV.

We tried an astronomy series,

But he has no time for the modern day presentation style.

Who's that idiot?

Why is he drawing a diagram of the solar system in the sand with a stick,

Then shouting over his shoulder while he runs up a hill?

And why do we have to have all that darn music?

Thank goodness for ice road truckers,

Which for some reason Dad loves,

Along with reruns of sitcoms like Porridge and Rising Damp.

But he always brightens when the weather forecast comes on.

Ah,

A bit of weather,

That's more like it.

This is what people really want to know about,

He says now.

Afterwards,

He says he doesn't know why he watches it,

As they nearly always get it wrong,

And you might as well ignore everything they say.

But he hangs on to their every word all the same,

Just as I am starting to hang on to the words of Carole Klein and Monty Don.

Dad may or may not go to the allotment tomorrow,

And he may or may not take his umbrella.

I may or may not visit the garden centre to buy some grit.

But we both appreciate the fleeting feeling of being in the know,

No matter how illusory it turns out to be.

Towards the end of June,

Just when I most need to be down at the allotment,

I am forced to take a break.

Hip bursitis strikes,

And walking is difficult,

Much less bending.

Luckily,

I manage to get a few seedlings in before it gets too bad.

Runner beans,

Cabbage,

A pumpkin plant and a few outdoor tomatoes planted against the fence on the west-facing side of the plot.

I'd already bobbed a few King Edwards in,

In case Dad's home guards didn't come up.

But in the event,

All the spuds are flourishing,

Covering several beds with their dark green rosettes and making our plot look like a going concern.

Dad's spud and chicken checking visits have tailed off though.

He finally presented his spreadsheet at the local surgery and has now had a 24-hour heart monitor test,

And then one that lasted three days.

These stopped him going about his normal business,

Even though the GP advised him to continue as normal.

Yes,

But I didn't quite like to,

He says.

It didn't seem right.

And neither test showed anything wrong,

Much to his disgust.

I'm afraid I had a bit of an up-and-downer with the surgery,

He admits one morning at his flat.

Oh,

I say,

Pretending to chew on a stale Jacob's Orange Club biscuit while slipping bits of it into my handbag.

Biscuit deceit is hereditary.

In British Home Store's cafe,

Mum and Dad always took their own,

Breaking pieces off under the table and only swallowing when they thought no one was looking.

That darn woman is trying to put me on heart tablets,

Says Dad.

What good will that do?

It's just a stab in the dark.

I told her I'd had a presyncope and she had the nerve to ask me what I understood by the term.

Then she said,

Why don't you just describe exactly what symptoms you're experiencing,

As if I was a five-year-old.

Dad hates being treated as anything less than a professional,

Even when it isn't his profession.

This isn't good for his heart,

I think,

And I say various reasonable things in a tone which strikes me as unfortunate.

Dad pounds his fist suddenly on the table,

Sending coffee jumping out of our mugs.

Whose side are you on?

I stare at him in dismay.

Yours,

Of course.

It isn't the right moment to ask him to help out on the allotment.

I walk home,

Worrying about Dad's heart and worrying,

Too,

About the allotment going to rack and ruin in our absence.

As soon as I'm through the door,

I snap at Mr.

MS over a trifle,

Then burst into tears.

Mr.

MS makes me a cup of tea,

Or boil,

As we like to call it.

I'll go down to the allotment if you can tell me what needs doing,

He offers.

It's sweet of him,

But I know from previous experience that I can't let him go down there unsupervised.

Over the past year,

Although he has appeared interested when I talk about crops,

He has retained absolutely nothing I have told him,

And still can't tell the difference between parsley and grass.

It's OK,

I say.

Want one of these?

He asks,

Flourishing a packet of dark chocolate digestives.

I wave them away.

I've already had a third of an orange club biscuit today that I didn't enjoy because it was stale.

What a waste of calories!

Mr.

MS,

Who rarely exercises and lives on biscuits and full English breakfasts,

Never puts on an ounce.

I,

Who swim,

Do Pilates,

Walk the dog and play table tennis four times a week,

Have to constantly monitor my food intake.

I try and drink my boil,

But it is scalding hot.

The jobs don't really matter,

I say,

Bitter.

It's just that I miss going down there.

Suddenly I am close to tears again.

Oh dear,

Says Mr.

MS,

Look,

Why don't you go down now?

I'll put your boil in a flask.

You could sit on the bench and just enjoy being there.

It's a reasonable enough suggestion,

I suppose,

But it makes me feel worse,

Because I'll hate seeing all the work that needs doing and not being able to do it,

I cry.

Mr.

MS stares.

I don't know if that's because I'm shouting or because I'm expressing a viewpoint that is totally alien to him.

Sorry,

I say,

I'll give it a try.

Limping to the plot,

I see that while I've been idle,

Other creatures haven't.

The place is covered in little mounds of soil,

Very finely churned,

As if a mini rotavator has been at work.

My cry of alarm brings one of our allotment neighbours over,

The one who always wears a leather cowboy hat.

He reassures me that although Mr.

Mole,

An insectivore,

Scoots under the roots,

He won't actually munch our lunch.

Those aren't his exact words,

But that's what he means.

So,

It's best to do nothing.

I agree.

The physio has already said that doing nothing must become my new forte,

My new modus operandi.

Not her exact words either.

The neighbour also lends me his hoe,

Suggesting that even if I can't bend to weed,

I can lop the heads off the weeds growing around my crops.

It is very kind of him.

I thank him,

Then sit on the bench and drink my boil.

I try to just listen to the birdsong and the rustling of the leaves.

I manage it for a few seconds.

The sounds are enchanting,

And I can see a different version of myself at another time in another universe,

Sitting and idling away an hour in their company.

It would be a kind of meditation.

But here and now,

I just can't do it.

Lounging on the plot at the peak of summer,

I can almost see the weeds growing.

Stowing the hoe in the shed,

I decide to go for a hobble around the other plots instead.

This proves to be,

In Mr MS speak,

A doubler,

Something that kills two birds with one stone.

I am getting gentle exercise,

Recommended,

And gathering allotment intel at the same time.

I discover that more new creatures have arrived a few plots down.

Three pigs.

A notice on their gate says they've been brought in to clear the undergrowth.

They seem to have done that already,

Including eating their own shed door.

By the time I get home,

I'm in a far better mood.

Then Mr MS says he'll ring Dad and arrange to take him out for a drive later in the week.

A change of scene might help him get things back in perspective,

He says.

When you really,

I ask.

Even thinking about their trip together makes me breathe more easily.

Mr MS is a treasure.

Then Dad rings,

And it seems there has been progress on another front too.

The GP has agreed to a seven-day heart monitor.

Dad will be fitted with it in a few days' time.

Well,

That's good news,

I say,

Cheerily.

Dad mutters something.

While you're waiting for that to be sorted,

I add,

You can go and see the chickens.

Maybe,

Says Dad,

Darkly,

And maybe not.

I realise I am cajoling him,

Even while trying not to.

Unfortunately,

It comes to me as naturally as breathing.

I put the phone down.

I feel sorry for Dad,

Deprived of the chickens' company.

More ridiculously,

I feel sorry for the chickens,

Deprived of him.

Suddenly,

A solution presents itself.

I could take over from Dad as chief chicken visitor until he is back up and running.

I could include the pygmy goats on my rounds,

And of course there are now the three little pigs.

In other words,

I'll do as Dad was doing before he was derailed by his health issues,

Or,

More accurately,

By his reaction to his health issues.

Armed with my hoe and my new attitude,

I'll find a new way to enjoy the allotments.

I rejoice inwardly,

Especially when I remember from somewhere that pigs love courgettes,

And that I have some in the fridge that I've been wondering how to use up.

It's a doubler,

If ever there was one.

To be continued.

Reviews

I laughed out loud and almost woke my husband at your dad’s response to the tv shows, and a devotion to the weather! Another similarity with my dear old dad. Thank you Mandy!💜🌟

Wonderfully thoughtful as always. I find myself thinking back to the time this takes place and remembering what I was doing in life while you and your dad were doing this. It’s a very calming and reflective moment in my day. Thank you. Also… British Home Stores… I haven’t heard that in a long time!

Another delightful chapter, putting me to sleep but then enjoyed in its entirety the next day. Mandy, I’m trying to picture your Dad as an actual weather personality on the local telly. Oh, I would have tuned in every night to catch that! 😅Lots of happenings at the Allotment! But ouchy gardening is no fun, bugger! Thank you! 🥰

I love this story! I have had injuries that interfere with my hobbies. I think this is a great story to listen to. 🩷🫵

Every chapter of this memoir is both funny and touching. I love it.

Fell asleep midway, so I’ll have to give it another listen. Enjoying this story though, Mandy. Thank you!