What we did on our holidays

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15194426.post-1164649869535420072006-11-27T17:27:00.000Z2006-11-28T20:03:24.626ZWhat we did on our holidays<div style="text-align: justify;">Quite specifically, what we did on our holidays was wait until it started to rain heavily, then ran outside and shovelled shit. It all started yesterday. We were down on the allotment collecting a rather fantabulous looking January King cabbage (ok, two months early, but who's counting?) and some kale when we spied the Allotment Uber Gaffer up the path. I made the sign of "could you get me a load of horse manure?" He made the sign of "I've already got you a load over there", which was odd seeing as we hadn't yet asked him for one. This either meant the AuG had had some sort of prophetic vision calling him to get us some poo in advance of our asking, or he'd got a general load in and we were the first people to ask. We decided to plump for the latter as the most likely explanation. This meant the manure had to be moved quickly; it wouldn't be without precedent for the same poo to end up being given to half a dozen different people. Luckily, the Allotmentboss's boss and I had taken today off, for no constructive reason other than we both had holiday to squander before the end of the year. We set off with our wheelbarrow (freshly pumped up tyre) and shovel just after midday. About one hundred yards from the house it started to rain. It was light drizzle; I wasn't going back. About two hundred yards from the house it started to rain heavily. It was just a passing shower; I wasn't going back. About three hundred yards from the house it was still raining heavily. I was already soaked; there was no point going back. The ABB quickly found shelter as soon as we got to the allotment site, delegating all non-managerial input to the poo moving exercise to me. In pouring rain I started loading up the first wheelbarrow full, squelching and slipping as bubbles of water-manure slurry gurgled out from under my shoes. By about the fourth wheelbarrow full I'd got into some sort of rhythm. I was forewarned about the little ha-ha ledge in the path that would tip half the dung out as the wheelbarrow bounced over it. I knew of the slippery mud slopes of death, waiting to send the unwary directly on to their arses, that went down the side of our plot to the lower beds. With a rhythm in place, I had some time to think. My mind flashed back to my thirteenth birthday, being called outside by my father to help him empty the semi-rotten contents of the compost heap into a tractor trailer. It was pretty clear that once you were a teenager birthdays just weren't special any more. As a thirty-something, that lack of distinction now extends to holidays. An hour and half and fourteen wheelbarrows' worth later, the job was done. Most beds have now got a pile of manure on, ready to be spread at a rate of about one heavily loaded big wheelbarrow per two square metres. I don't know if that will be enough, but by that stage even I could smell that I smelt bad. And, hanging around for too long with trousers sticking to one's skin, soaked to the knees with horse poo, has limited merits. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15194426-116464986953542007?l=ourallotment.blogspot.com'/></div>AllotmentBosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13308700625074489682noreply@blogger.com3