Sowing The Seeds

It will probably come as no surprise to those who have read this column that I am something of a stranger to hard graft. In fact, it's a truism to say that I have spent most of my life avoiding it like the plague.

I was fortunate to be the first member of my family to receive the blessings of a university education, and my choice of a career in journalism meant that any notion of manual labour was easily sidestepped. That's not to say that the life of a scribbler has always been an easy one. Wally Green at the Stockport Argus taught me an early lesson in life, when he said 'Son, the Olivetti is your lathe, and your brain supplies the engine oil to keep it moving.'

So, it has been something of a shock to my system to recently take on an allotment. There's a lot to be said for digging away in the sun, eagerly anticipating the point at which your seeds will be sown or your bulbs will be transplanted. Even if six hours of solid labour only managed to transform a plot little bigger than my bathroom. Admittedly, it was a bit of a jungle, but even so it gave me pause to consider whether I was doing the right thing. Six decades of studiously shunning physical exercise had not exactly prepared me for such toil.

I'll be persevering, however. To everything there is a season, in the sun, and I sense that in my own personal autumn has approached. I may be hanging up my quill, and replacing it with a hoe. At least it's cheaper than a gym membership.

A Conspiracy of Silence

It would be easy for readers to imagine that my recent 'radio silence' has been prompted by threats of legal action, promoted by the powers that be who are always anxious to still the voice of the dissident.

A glance at the list of labels used for my postings over the last year (handily listed in the side-bar, to the left) will show that my potential enemies are legion, so it would be natural to assume there was a queue of potential litigants.

The truth, however, is more prosaic. I have been distracted from my blogging by one or two projects that demanded my energies. My on-going attempt to compile a Guide to the Wetherspoon Pubs of England has proven to be a task which makes the painting of the Forth Road Bridge look like a pushover. New establishments are opening by the week, and I fear it may be years before I can bring the Guide to publication.

At the same time, I have been getting excited at the idea of taking over part of an allotment which a friend has just procured. I'll doubtless be stopping by over at Mystic Veg's place more frequently for tips and tricks to guide me in my growing - although if his attempts with rhubarb are anything to go by, I may have to cast my net wider in the search for advice.

The Gnashing's Over!

News in from the smoky small-holdings of Lincolnshire, where the smell of weeds burning in a heap of soil lends an earthy tone to my final post of the weekend.

An old drinking partner of mine from my days at Beyond The Boundary magazine has just made his debut on the blogosphere. And a very fine debut it is, if I may be so bold as to say.

The author is a man who, back in 1994, stunned publicans across Oldham with news of his engagement to a Lincolnshire lass. Once he was 'withdrawn from circulation', some observers estimated that as many as 125 jobs were lost in the pub and brewery sector of the town in the months and years to follow.

His sage advice on vegetable growing looks destined to bring a whole new dimension to blogworld - filling a palpable void that has hitherto had seasoned allotment holders gnashing their teeth (and in some cases, their dentures) in frustration. They need gnash no longer.

May I introduce, then, MysticVeg.