Mandy Sutter, Writer

Given everyone’s situation this Spring and in memory of my Dad, I’m re-publishing the story of his allotment, starting at the beginning, ten years ago. I hope you enjoy it. With love, MS… Dad rings. ‘I’ve been offered an allotment,’ he says. ‘After all this time!’ He put his name on the waiting list six […]

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.

Across the nation, in households that look to all intents and purposes completely normal, an arcane practice takes place at this time of year. Windowsills and work surfaces become home to rows of brown, dusty things. They stay there till their skin goes as soft and wrinkled as an elephant’s, and pale shoots sprout. Then someone makes tea, pours it into a tartan thermos flask, laces it with whisky and, taking the poor and somehow blind-looking creatures with them, heads off down to the allotment with a spade.