The allotment files.
I have a deep and dark secret. I am old way before my time. I must be, for I have recently aquired the status symbol that most exemplifies the stereo-typical boring old fart.
I am now the proud tenant of my very own allotment!
In truth, I have had this small plot of land for many months now, but I have only just come to terms with my oncoming middle age and impending mid life crisis. Many men, when confronted with the truth of their youth is over find it necessary to seek out the nearest blonde in order to prove to themselves that they have still got 'it'. Or splurge their savings upon a lavish automobile in the sports style.
But not me. No sir. What do I do? I rent out a small plot of land at the back of a housing estate in northern Kent, thats what!
I have done this with a dream in mind. A dream that consists of me growing a variety and abundance of fruit and veg, a variety and abundance that enables me to make myself enough booze to keep myself pickled all the way through the four seasons.
Ambitious? Yep. Possible? Maybe, when coupled with a bit of foraging here and there. Whether or not it is viable remains to be seen. But a start has been made and it is a start that has my liver on high alert.
The strawberry patch has been allocated and planted. The beetroot, although not sown as yet, has been given more than adequate space which has been well manured. Blueberry bushes have been planted (an odd choice you may think, but they were free!). Rhubarb, that was kindly planted by the previous occupant is poking its way out of the soil as we speak. Plans are in place for redcurrants, tomatoes and sweet potatoes. There has even been wild talk of installing a bee hive so that I can be self sufficent in the production of mead, at this stage however, it remains just talk. There is plenty of scope on my plot for other wine insipred fruit and veg, and I am of course open to suggestions.
But what, I hear you cry, of using my small corner of the planet to nurture and grow produce that will feed my ever sprouting flock of offspring?
Well, what of it say I.
The only contribution from the children of the household has been, thus far, to erect a very shoddy looking scarecrow that they have found amusing to name 'Daddy'. With this insult in the forefront of my mind, I have deemed it appropiate to 'cock a deaf un' to their pleas and protestations for anything remotely resembling actual food.
However, after a quick google search, I did manage to find a recipe for pumpkin wine. Pumpkin's are one of the things that the kids most want me to grow. How sweet they will taste when fermented and bottled. Vengence my friends is not best chilled, it is best served by the glass.
I will endeavor to keep you updated on the progress of the allotment, my wine making escapades, and of course my children's relentless pursuit of mocking me.
Watch this space for updates.
Although the month of Feburary is yet to draw to a close, the seeds of my pumpkin wine have (quite literally) been sown. As I type this they are beginning to germinate in the greenhouse. (Cut to menacing/ manic cackle).