Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Thanks for joining me this evening and welcome back to Ted the Shed,
My memoir about my dad's allotment.
We're going to be listening to a suitably seasonal chapter tonight.
But before I begin,
Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable on whatever surface you're sitting or lying on.
That's great.
And if you're sitting comfortably,
I'll begin.
November 2010,
Christmas Shed The river that runs on the other side of our allotment back fence is described on Wikipedia as the most volatile and fastest rising river in the world.
It's true,
The river can rise and fall in moments,
Sweeping people off the stepping stones both further up and further down the river,
And even drowning them.
Folks who live near rivers like this know which areas flood and in what order.
An excited Mr Mandy Sutter,
Back from his late night walk with dog Mandy Sutter,
Says things like,
The park's waterlogged but not the football pitch,
Or the path beyond the old bridge is now underwater.
Dad likes to talk about how he might get cut off.
Then he drives to Tesco's in cheeky looks and fills his boot with oranges,
Cartons of orange juice and packs of Jacob's Club orange biscuits.
Since retirement,
His lunch has consisted of one banana and one navel orange.
He likes the navels thin-skinned and if possible slightly misshapen.
He feels that these are the juiciest and he'll go to some lengths to hunt them down,
Even driving to other nearby towns.
He won't tolerate oranges in a net,
Satsumas or thick-skinned jaffas,
As Mr MS has found out to his cost.
But back to the river.
The path-walkers are divided on where exactly the floodwaters enter the allotments,
Just as none can say for sure what the land was used for before it became allotments.
Some cock their eyebrows and say one thing,
Others shake their heads and say another.
Or,
When pressed by a deranged-looking chap in a flat cap,
Become more vague rather than less.
So we allotmenteers don't know what to think.
You've only to see our sheds,
Some on stilts,
Some flat on the ground,
To realise that.
Bonfire night comes and goes and as the nights draw in,
It rains more often.
One day it rains very hard and goes on for nearly a week.
The river turns into a brown torrent.
Tree trunks and bloated sheep hurtle past.
Visitors and locals alike stop on all three bridges of our little town to take photos.
When the rain finally stops,
I leave it a day or two,
Then go to the allotments.
The site is covered in mud.
It's like seeing one's home after a burglary.
The mind won't immediately interpret the visuals.
Where's the DVD recorder?
It asks.
I'm sure it was under the TV.
Hey,
Where is the TV?
And why is the carpet covered in broken glass?
On our plot,
I wonder why bits of wood are strewn everywhere and why the bench is upside down.
Why is a tub of creosote lying in the middle of mud-covered spinach?
Where have the potato tops gone?
Why are dead leaves heaped in drifts against the front fence?
And why are the three steps up to the shed,
Made by Dad out of plywood,
Black instead of light brown?
When the penny finally drops,
I phone Dad straight away.
Well,
I never,
He says,
Sounding almost pleased.
I'd better bring my new wellies.
He drove 30 miles to buy the wellies in a sale and has been dying to press them into use ever since.
They make a heck of a lot of noise,
Slapping the back of my calf,
He says about them,
As soon as he arrives at the plot,
As if we were midway through a conversation.
I keep turning round,
Thinking some fella's walking right behind me.
But then,
What do you expect when you buy boots for £2.
50?
We begin the clearance.
My job is to rake and bag mud-covered leaves.
Soon,
I too am covered in mud.
Dad's job is to wonder that the water reached as high as it did and check out every inch of the shed's interior for moisture.
I glimpse,
Once again,
The passion that can unite man and hut.
Dry as a bone inside,
What did I tell you?
One of our neighbours arrives,
A likeable young man with a toddler in tow.
He built his shed flat to the ground and there is condensation inside his window.
Did it get in?
Dad asks.
Afraid so,
He says,
Removing the window to let air circulate.
I'm not the only one,
Either.
He points to ground-level sheds on other plots.
They have also received interior soakings,
Judging by their windows.
Sorry to hear that,
Says Dad,
Hardly able to contain his delight.
An hour or so later,
As we walk back to our cars,
He delivers his master stroke.
I reckon our shed could do with raising a few more inches.
I have absolutely no idea how this can be done.
It sounds impossible.
But next day,
When I meet Dad on site,
He is armed with four bricks and the pristine car jack from Cheeky Looks.
Single-handedly,
He jacks the shed legs up,
One by one,
And inserts the bricks underneath.
And so,
The shed goes up in the world.
That should keep the weather out,
He says,
Straightening up.
Good job,
Dad,
I say,
And for once he doesn't contradict me.
Then I see he has cut a V out of the tops of both his wellies and gaffer-taped the edges together to make them fit.
They look really uncomfortable.
But customising them,
I know,
Will have given him a lot more pleasure than buying a decent pair in the first place.
Dad enjoys our monthly trip to the local garden centre.
It is warm,
With decent toilets,
It is full of people his own age,
And you can walk for miles,
Unobtrusively supporting yourself on a trolley.
There's no stigma attached,
Unlike a daycare centre,
And it's free,
Unlike a National Trust property.
One morning,
We walk through the Christmas decoration section.
Fairy lights,
Strings of icicles,
And candles of every colour shimmer,
Twinkle,
And flick on and off in complex sequences.
It sets him off on a rant.
Who in their right mind would give that house room,
He explodes,
At a large glittery snowman with a black top hat.
A huge Santa waves from an illuminated sleigh that goes backwards and forwards.
Would anyone actually pay for a monstrosity like that,
He bellows.
A nearby family looks sheepish,
So I urge him on into the next section.
Bags of giant purple potpourri,
Meditainment CDs,
And hexagonal jars of honey are not much of an improvement,
So I stride on into the tools section to find respite among tones of wood and metal.
Dad,
However,
Is on a roll.
He examines a garden fork.
What kind of halfwit would buy this?
It'll fall to pieces inside a week.
He's probably right.
Real gardeners surely don't shop here,
Paying over the odds for concrete horse's heads and big dripper automatic watering systems.
Who needs a rain cover for their chiminea?
And if they do,
What's wrong with a black bin liner?
The garden centre is indeed a temple to shopping,
Not gardening.
Nevertheless,
We manage to spend three hours there.
We wander about,
Dissing things,
Go into the cafe for a coffee and a mince pie,
Do the code word in the free newspaper,
Then spend almost an hour in the discount books section,
Which cheers Dad up no end.
He picks up a glossy tome about bread making.
Look at this,
He says.
I didn't know you were interested in baking,
I say.
Never mind that.
452 pages.
And look at the quality of the paper.
The thing weighs about a pound.
Now,
That's what I call good value.
By then,
It's time for a turkey and cranberry sandwich and another cuppa.
We call at the supermarket on the way home and take separate baskets.
Knowing he'll insist on paying for my shopping,
I decide just to buy a couple of items.
I have to come back later anyway,
As I want something from the garden centre that I didn't dare buy in front of him.
Standing by shelves containing a baffling array of toothpastes,
He watches me put three packs of paracetamol into my basket.
They won't let you buy that many,
He says.
It's two per customer.
Ridiculous,
Isn't it?
Health and safety gone mad.
Would three packs.
.
.
Oh,
Yes,
He says,
If you washed them down with a bottle of gin.
I'm unsettled by his grasp of the subject.
He goes on.
But if that's what you were going to do,
You'd do it anyway,
Wouldn't you?
You'd just have to go to Sainsbury's and Tesco's.
They must think we're all imbeciles.
Later,
At the garden centre alone,
I make my way back around all the items we viewed earlier.
Sometimes,
When we're together,
It's as if I can't see things properly,
Let alone decide whether I want to buy them or not.
I linger by the big dripper,
Taking it in.
I begin thinking it might be useful for watering next year's seedlings when we go on holiday.
But recognising the danger of knee-jerk rebellion expenditure,
I pull myself together and head to the Christmas decorations section.
I scoop up a large box of multi-coloured fairy lights powered by a solar panel.
If those aren't frivolous and unnecessary,
I'd like to know what is.
But I can just see them down on the plot,
Festooning the shed in the gathering dark.
To be continued.
