An encounter with a man of the cloth

There's been so much rain that my plant labels are verging on the illegible.  Covered in mud spattered by the force of falling raindrops, I have a real fear that I'll get my radishes and leeks confused – if it ever warms up enough for either of them to grow. 

After a quick check on the plot between showers with little darling #2 on Saturday, I went down with the petrol strimmer on Sunday to blitz the perimeter weeds.  The ground is too wet underfoot to do much else and I'm well aware that I'm the sort of allotment neighbour for whom an ASBO for weed propogation is only a wink away.  One of the effects of my novice status is that I often choose to be at the allotments at different times to my neighbours – I haven't learn't the prime times yet.  Universally friendly they may be, but I see very little of them – an observation particulary true of the intimidatingly neat plot next door.  I've been told that this is managed by the retired vicar of the local parish, but I've only seen him a couple of times and he's been a bit short on the cheery wave which constitutes the entry-level greeting down there.  Anyway, he was there on Sunday so I was feeling rather guilty at disturbing his peace and quiet as I roared away and laughed manically at the weeds falling before my enthusuastic stimming.  When I'd had my lust sated and the perimeter restored to respectability, I spluttered the motor to a halt, caught his eye and walked up to him in the restored silence calling an apology for all the row.  I needn't have worried, as the cloth of this particular man seems to have spread to his hearing.  He cupped a be-soiled palm behind his ear and bellowed 'what?' at me before grinning broadly and shaking my hand 'You'll have to shout – I'm hard of hearing'.  So much for my guilty concience.

Forecast is improving, so there may be some proper gardening to do soon.      

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