The far left corner of the allotment must have been lovely at one time. Gooseberry and currant bushes peek out through the brambles and the dry grass. Blackened Comfry, rogue Jerusalem artichokes, squatting weeds, they're all fighting for life. Despite the faded charm it's got to go, all of it. Trying to save one particular plant would be too hard, like playing pick up sticks but with added gnarled roots.
It takes a day, but I clear the ground. Armed with near-useless secateurs and a pair of tree-loppers I snip my way through the tangle of limbs. I'm accompanied by the sounds of a Police helicopter circling above, my Turkish neighbours digging and bickering, and Radio 4 drifting on the wind. Eric plays the station all day, until Gardeners Question Time comes on, when he promptly switches it off.
My tree-loppers gradually seize up. I have no oil or WD40 in the shed so I reach for the only thing I have to hand that might lubricate them; some Piz Buin suntan lotion, factor 30. It works, though the afternoon is punctuated with sense memories of last summer's holiday in Kos . Despite the cold, and repeated snags from the gooseberry thorns, I find myself thinking of blue skies and Greek cheese pie.
