A regular sound on the allotments - along with the screeching of parakeets and the chugging rotors of police helicopters over the cemetery - is the noise of the playground. In term and out of term I can hear a neighbouring bell ring for mid-morning break, lunch and afternoon break.
The allotment is a playground. As a true child of the 1950s I have permission to get dirty, move earth and water, construct and demolish structures, plant seeds, talk to animals in generally friendly terms (foxes and pigeons excepted), drink out of my water bottle, snack on fruit straight from the trees. I wear green wellington boots that go 'gloop' in the mud, I get earth under my fingernails...
And it is not. It is a workplace with real tools that grown-ups use - spades, secateurs, rakes that have to be laid down carefully when not in use then cleaned and put away. I have to tidy up after myself and remember to lock the shed. I need to be aware of my diabetes. I have to plan, although planning is always contingent and changes season by season with our increasingly unpredictable climate. It is a place for team work. I collaborate with and take account of the preferences of my husband.
The allotment is a school where I communicate enthusiasm, demonstrate and then stage the tasks for M in the hope that she will take things further for herself. It's also a place where I continue to learn from the experienced oldtimers and experts and from the young men who've been busy finding out things from the Internet.
Is the allotment my life? Not literally, quite often metaphorically. It is my recreation ground.
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