I started digging. The shed contains some tools but woefully is missing a good hoe or a spade. The garden claw was useless. I chose a sturdy garden fork to lift up the weeds and then turn them roots-up, in the hope that next time I come round they will have died off a little bit and I can rake them together. Here's hoping.
It was tough work, bringing on profuse perspiration. I also had to fight jeans that kept sliding down, a shirt that was riding up and the thoughtlessness of not bringing any water. Or gloves. Blisters came and went.
Another gardenmate appeared, the one with the much-mulched patch. Bringing edging stones. Showing me the correct usage of the gate lock. Telling me about the kids who sneak in and steal vegetables. Noting that she had asked for my plot to be given out last so they could build a wormery on it, if it hadn't been allocated.
After a couple of hours, this was the result of digging:
The weeds were mainly chickweed and grass, with a few dandelions mixed in for good measure. The soil is not too clayey, as far as I could tell, with surprisingly few stones. One corner of the plot must have had a compost bin on it previously - the weeds were just doing too great and the soil had a nice, almost black look to it.
Thirty minutes' ride back on the bike. I was covered in dirt, I couldn't even wash my hands because the standpipes are still off. My legs ached. I craved something to drink. The cold beer at home was excellent. I love my plot.
