Up the plot

Whether I'm grafting away with the spade and hoe or sitting under the tree with flask of tea and book, the allotment is proving to be an increasingly welcome oasis of calm in these troubled times. The credit crunch. falling house prices, street crime, summer TV schedule, none of this impinges on my consciousness when I'm up the plot. In fact, there are times when I think that I've passed into a completely different space-time continuum and woken up in the middle of a John Major speech. You know, the bit about the sound of leather on willow, old maids cycling back from Holy Communion and all that old tosh. I'm usually brought back to earth by the arrival of the first 4x4 load of the chattering classes.
The days of allotments being the preserve of old geezers and the occasional clueless hippy are long over. Growing your own is now attracting the middle class in droves, all desperate to weave their own bread and grow their own laptop and creating not only a whole new market in designer gardening accessories but also long waiting lists for plots. Hang on! The mists are clearing. I'm not in a John Major speech at all. It's the Palace of Versailles. Marie Antoinette and her chums are in the garden dressed as milkmaid and playing at being peasants. Must remember to get that tumbril out of the barn.