Everyone should have one!

The perfumed aroma of fresh manure fills my nose, gloves make grasping fistfuls of straw and horse muck almost a pleasure..no peg on my nose.. I am becoming immune...

Lottie the allotment is looking well, she grins a green grass smile as we approach; the sun performs a glorious welcome amidst a pure blue sky...

We tackle listed jobs, the ninth bed sighs as we fill her with dark brown compost from last summers flower tubs, she will soon be nursing raspberry canes and gooseberries. I sit on my throne, an upturned water-butt stand, and settle twenty strawberry plants into the rhubarb bed...better than being joined by my bum! Mr H does the heavy work trundling to and fro from the water trough with full watering cans...

Snacks accompany regular breaks, my oatcake sandwich surprise has Mr H grinning (oatcakes stuck together with a spread of lemon curd..savoury and sweet... yummy), Jamie Oliver beware.... On my deck chair I tilt my face up to smile at the sun, my skin rejoices ...at last spring is in the air...

Fellow allotment holders stop to chat, they ask if I will be doing cream teas once the shed is up; yes of course and champagne...Mr H wants Rachel de Thame from Gardeners World to cut the red ribbon.... In that case I will invite Monty Don!

Back at home our red faces glow with satisfaction as bacon sandwiches are munched. Then Mr H falls asleep on the sofa....

My nephew must not be told I am eating bacon  I am a vegetarian..uh hum...well a pesce-crispybaco-tarian.....he says I am attention seeking!!

Committed to Carrot Cake

Carrot cake is the centre of my universe. Like birthday cake it was an occasional treat but now…

It moved into the village last year, we were never officially introduced but it dominates my thoughts.

Its arrival coincided with an incident; for a second time the DVLA stole my driving licence and it took the theft to discover that the cake had arrived.  It lives by the chemist, I saw it on a pill trek and it was love at first bite.

I avoid it when I walk to the hairdressers and grocers but the detour to the chemist, post office and paper shop is so short it is rude not to make it.

It has become part of the village community; people flock to see it dressed in its snow capped beauty. If I could drive we would never have met, neither would I chat to wonderful villagers who like me seem drawn to its splendour. The exercise required to reach its home, the DaisyChain Deli, explains away the calories it leaves on my hips. This obsession is similar to my Dexamethasone days and like the Avocado is better than hospital food.

On a plate I contemplate the square, gently sliced, I share the walnut pieces equally. I bite slowly  into the moist cake, the sweet and savoury mixture explodes on my tongue. 

When I drove and worked I left the village before my day and universe began; now the village is part of my universe and I am proud of where I am.