Regular readers may remember the story of thwarted allotment lovers Harry and the Lady of Shallot.
Imagine my horror when, visiting the allotments yesterday, I discovered that the star-cross’d lovers have suffered yet another cruel setback.
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The day finally came.
A tall dark handsome stranger appeared at the allotments, on a plot a mere stone’s throw from our own.
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While gardeners are happy to emote about weeds – ‘those beautiful buttercups’ or ‘that bloody Himalayan Balsam’ – down at our allotment few voice their feelings about their own crops. Perhaps it seems taboo, like saying you have a favourite child.
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