A couple of weeks ago, our allotment association (Brookfield Lane) organised the Autumn working party to tidy up the site and carry out some improvements before the onset of Winter proper. I ended up writing a bit of a poem about our day and took it along to last Tuesday’s AGM with an eye to giving it an airing between the main business and the quiz, should the opportunity arise. Alas, there was no quiz this year. Have you heard of the Gracie Fields’ song, “I took my harp to a party and no-one asked me to sing”?
Here’s what the assembled throng missed out on (or not):-
Working Party Time
Not another bloomin’ ditty from that bloomin’ Poyser bloke.
You can’t sneeze up here without some verse. It’s getting past a joke.
October 10th. we’d mobilised the Autumn working party
with every chance we’d finish up all sweaty, tired and clarty.
At 10 o’clock, we’ve got stuck in with tasks explained to t’work force,
with Mick’s lot at the far end where Casey’s bantering till he’s hoarse,
whilst Dave’s team clears hedge cuttings from a plot that’s overgrown
along with Graham the Treasurer, so not quite on his own.
Then Phil polls up and joins them to shred trimmings for the tip
and it takes a good 10 minutes ere Dave has to crack the whip.
They’re chatting about cricket, Brexit, what crops have failed this year
and just how long it seems till t’break and will there be some beer.
But somehow Dave’s trailer gets filled right to the brim and cuttings stashed,
but there’s lots of work remains to do before the tea gets mashed.
It’s like those digs you see with Tony Robinson on TV
except it’s much more frenzied, barrows buzzing past you, 1, 2, 3.
There’s Maggie with a shovel shifting shavings in a blur
and Mick, Big Bob and Jane’s mum struggling to keep pace with her.
It’s a triumph for our team work and when the dust cloud clears,
the space is rough and ready, gone accumulation of the years.
So, the chips are down, the wood chips up, sweats trickling down our backs.
A kettle’s boiling on the grill between the sheds and shacks.
The tea is brewed. It’s sipped and slurped with great enthusiasm.
and more than one of us seize up with cramp and muscle spasm.
Sausage rolls we scoff and sponge cake worthy of “Great British Bake Off”
and we’re a little bit rebellious when it comes to t’time to break off,
but back we go to finish off the task we have in hand
knowing our allotment site’s improved. It surely will be grand,
but one of us has lost the plot or rather lost his keys
and spends the next two days around the site upon his knees.
Phil’s fervent prayers are granted just as all hope’s begun to fade.
They’re found at home in Mady’s bag! Not lost, merely M/s-laid.
Just 2 more lines still to recite, then I’ll get back to my beer.
That sponge cake! Those sausage rolls! When’s working party time next year?