There is something wonderful about heading the opposite way to commuters on a Friday morning. As they all head one way over the bridge into central London and into work we’re off in the other direction – across the bridge and into the country (sort of). We probably look pretty odd with our wellies, our garden rake and most of all with our kitchen scraps in hand.
There's something brilliantly back to front about allotment life. Those kitchen scraps that start to go a bit pongy in your kitchen smell perfectly natural on a compost heap, bugs that you would squish at home are celebrated, and dirt – a substance seemingly as lethal as kryptonite when found on your carpet is cared for, nurtured and fed – it’s a substance that people of great intellect have written books about.
I’m enjoying subversive back to front days out on the allotment, days that should be for working but are really for idling, places where rubbish is turned into food, and where mud is celebrated and revered.
Mr Middleton says: "Let us respect the good old potato and give it it's due; if we can make sure of an adequate supply we need not seriously fear Hitler and his U Boats"
Tom
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