Peter Richardson - 20/06/09
The Great Garden Project being finally complete, I welcomed its first visitor the other day.
Proudly I showed him the wooden arbour, deliberately positioned in the corner of our recently returfed lawn so as to catch the late evening sun while we sit and sip a cheeky Spanish sparkler and nibble toasted ciabatta.
The Cava, the sun, and the holey toast ... a scene of near-biblical serenity.
Across the greensward, the newly-bloomed delphiniums were waving in the breeze.
I was so chuffed, I waved back.
Then I turned to our guest, looking for the sort of compliment that would be meat and drink to a Chelsea Flower Show winner, and heard the following words:
"You've slipped up. It should have been turned into an allotment."
Thanks allotmate.
What is the matter with folk these days? Why is everyone suddenly planting spuds and onions where the tulips should be?
You can't turn on the telly without some lank-haired geezer ordering you to commandeer the grass verge outside your home and grow turnips on it.
Vegetables are all right in their way, providing they are seasoned and slathered in butter.
But have you honestly heard anyone say, in the manner they might if anticipating a sirloin steak: "I'm looking forward to a nice juicy courgette tonight?" Course not.
And radishes. What, precisely, is the point of a radish? If you want something pink, white and crunchy, buy a stick of Blackpool rock.
At least you'll taste something.
Speaking of which, in my planned memoirs on a life in newspapers – working title From Nowhere to Obscurity – I already have the chapter in my head, relating to career low points.
Lowest of all was the trip to the Netherlands, which I had accepted on the basis that I was flying Club Class.
In the mind of the freeloading hack, this is always reason enough to accept.
Unfortunately I had not paid sufficient detail to the itinerary, drawn up on behalf of the Dutch flower and veg growing industry, the highlight of which turned out to be a guided tour of a radish-processing factory. Absolutely fascinating.
This week I picked up the morning paper to read about a school which now has veg-growing on the timetable. Kids are encouraged to nurture onions and cabbage.
Onions, fair enough, as you can always do them in batter. But cabbage?
It is every child's duty to detest the stuff.
The smell of it cooking when I was at school was precisely the same as that which permeated the boys' changing rooms, but with an extra concentrate of rancid sock.
In your town and mine, the waiting list for a council allotment now requires you to hang on so long that, when the day finally arrives that you reach the end of the queue, your chief means of identification is a death certificate.
For goodness sake, get a grip. There's a market in town offering all the fresh veg you need for not much more than tuppence. Go fill yer muddy boots.
Let me just add that I bow to no one in my admiration of old Albert and the allotment which sustains him like it did his dad and his grandad.
I was even happy for that bloke in Bolton, who left his turnips just long enough to collect 25m from the Euro Lottery, even though the money was mine by rights.
But all the Ginny-come-latelys; all those folk who think they're saving the planet by digging their little bit of it up and sowing a carrot or two...
What if everyone did the same? Not only would you ruin your local market, you would put the professionals out of business and turn the fertile West Lancashire plain into wasteland. Or maybe a giant housing estate.
If you must dig, dig into your pocket and buy the stuff.
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Weather for Preston
Thursday 09 February 2012
Today
Light sleet
Temperature: 2 C to 3 C
Wind Speed: 12 mph
Wind direction: South east
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