The village has an area set aside for allotments: a curious hotchpotch of cloches, compost bins and vegetable patches. Each plot has a shed made out of recycled materials and one or two men have been known to take up residence when ‘life with the missus’ becomes intolerable.

Sadly the ownership of these allotments is jealously guarded. One would have to have put your name on the waiting list in the days of Noah or, allegedly, have connections and a wine cellar. The chances of my ever having an allotment seemed slim. Each year the parish clerk would shake his head and declare solemnly that there were no plots available for the foreseeable future.

And then out of the blue came an offer of an allotment on the outskirts of a neighbouring town. The newly acquired site is not perfect: the soil is a sticky clay, sheds and fugitive husbands are not allowed and the site lacks the character that is built up over the years. Yet beggars cannot be choosers and so I signed on the bottom line, paid my fifteen pounds and accepted.

I have already been down there to turn a part of it over and have erected my flag of ownership in the way of a clump of rhubarb that I have half-inched from the estate. I have also purchased a bag of ‘red baron’ shallots from the local store.

Grumpy George, who naturally has an allotment in the village, has promised to pass by and teach me all he knows of the noble art of growing vegetables. I can hardly wait!