On a cold day in February, I took my 9-month-old daughter to the site. The excitement I had on the way there was slightly muted when I saw the site. It wasn’t totally overgrown, and there were two sheds but there were also things I’d not bargained for: wooden pallets, broken and scattered around the plot; wierd brassicas that time forgot.
I had expected to be able to put my daughter down and let her play, but the ground was in a pretty rough state — it still is. The red shed has a bitumenised fabric floor and it was covered with gravel and dried-out onions.
There’s a vicious rose plonked in the centre of the allotment. It used to catch me when I was walking up the path, but it’s since been pruned. And who puts a blackthorn bush right by a shed door? Another pruning has stopped me getting speared each time I go near the blue shed.
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