Sense and censorship.

I’ve been slowly levelling off an area next to the greenhouse in anticipation of a poly-tunnel, by emptying wheelbarrow loads of turf and clay onto it every time I do some digging. Digging is good for me. It helps keep me thin.

On more than one occasion, Linda has pointed out at, that at the rate I can dig by hand, I’ll be too old to enjoy it by the time I’ve finished it.

‘Why don’t you just hire a digger?’

‘Because I like digging.’

I have two weeks off. I might chill a bit in between the digging. Maybe I will treat myself to a digger and driver.

Meanwhile, things are moving on nicely elsewhere. The first lot of brassicas are in and courgettes, beans and tomatoes are coming on a pace in the greenhouslet. The bottom of the greenhouse is coming on apace thanks to the lads from one of my other allotments – they help me out in lieu of rent.

I’ve finished the strip of path for the new bed at the bottom and the re-purposed wild flower bed is all planted up. The rhubarb is ready to start harvesting. We’re on track to increase production and have quite a few plants to pass on.

There’s lots of censorship going on of anything that doesn’t tally with the govt narrative. I don’t trust those screens.

The government’s centralised coronavirus app is developed by American tech giant Pivotal/VMware. It already courts controversy with regard to its efficacy and its ability to harvest detailed personal information above and beyond its original purpose. I certainly won’t be downloading it.

The 75th anniversary of VE day comes and the UK goes bunting-blighty mad. A full-on mock WW2 street-party fest where the government endorses mass gatherings to effectively knock back several weeks of lock-down effort by ignoring social distancing. The inference is that mighty-mighty-blighty is celebrating a great victory against the baddest of baddies. Because Britain is so great, Britons are actually protected from the virus.

My favourite time is here. The week surrounding the May full moon is blissfully hot and sunny. I glamp on the ranch in a Boy’s Own stylee in the van. No vehicle is more perfect. The week is a buccolic heady haze. I really can see the morning sun come over the horizon from my bed.  I am reminded of my festival-inspired frugal routine where everything is simple and well organised. The well is the fridge and a single cold tap on a water butt is adequate. I have everything I need and what better place to have breakfast, than with the company of the joyfully singing birds and that stunning view.

The evening arrives and I have everything planned – after a sterling répas, I quietly watch the light fade. The twinkling street lights from the town below take over and finally the magnificent golden moon slips from between the trees every bit as beautiful as I anticipated.