Got a call from OH at work twenty minutes before clock-off to say he'd be off to the plot with the genny, the water pump and the strimmer. When I joined him an hour later, he had rigged up the pump to the genny and our water butts were filling nicely. Meanwhile I watered what the hose couldn't reach, then OH watered all his vines. We've been told we'd get massive thunderstorms tonight and tomorrow but it's all a bit vague and if the seedlings don't get watered, they'll wither -- so we water.
Once we've filled all our available vessels, OH unrigs the pump and hooks up the Flymo instead. For the first time ever, OH mows the central path, the bit that runs along past the new plot, which will instantly catapult him into honorary Old Boy status. Only Old Boys mow the central path. Then I take over and mow my plot, which gets me nothing status-wise, although when I wrestle with the layflat hose that still contains what feels like 100 litres of water between kinks in the plastic, I hear one of the Old Boys crack a joke and make a gesture in my direction and OH emit a dirty laugh. I get my revenge by running the mower over some rocks, bending the blade and turning it into a discordant whistle -- amazing sound.
We rest on upturned Reissdorf Koelsch crates and survey our work in the dying light of the day. I knew what I'd need after an evening's work on the plot -- beer, mainly -- so I brought some. OH is pleased. We clink bottles and hash through our respective working days and every once in a while a fellow allotmenteer wanders past us along the freshly-mown central path. We toast them slightly tipsily. Happiness, to us, is a fully watered, properly mown plot on an early June evening.
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