Allotments are like gold dust in my suburb of south London but, even so, I still thought I’d try for one. I have two teenage boys and foolishly thought it might tempt them to come out of their bedrooms more often.
Surprisingly, after just 18 months, I finally landed my small plot near the local pub.
Within a year I’d grown an assortment of fruit and veg – squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, runner beans and even a fine crop of strawberries. Almost better than the produce was the lovely community atmosphere, especially on a summer evening.
The chap who ran the whole thing was called Jeff – a friendly sort in his mid-50s, always on hand for advice about pruning or sowing times.
One mid-spring evening he asked if I’d like to join a few of them for a drink in the pub. The group was small: A retired teacher in her late 60s, a single man who dreamt of expanding his plot and monetising his love of vegetables, and several others I knew by sight but had never spoken to before.
