My name is way down the waiting list for an allotment. Years before it is even remotely likely. However, I have contacts and consolations.
A bowl of ripening plums sits in my kitchen thanks to Mike. Tonight Octavia asked if I should like to help pick some of her plums, and when I explained I was already plum rich, said I could give some to my lovely neighbours.
The sky was impossibly blue; bees buzzed; birds sang; a teenaged pair of neighbours climbed ladders into the tree and hurled overripe plums like squishy missiles.
My camera battery died. But not before I had oohed and aahed over the other ripening fruit, and taken a few photos.
If I get another chance, I’ll get the fig in focus.