Well Watered Allotment
I decided that my allotment deserved more. We are forever being bombarded by that TV advert that says "because you're worth it", and so somewhere deep in my psyche I realised that my allotment was also "worth it".
It provides me with periods of calm and worthwhile hard work, as well as considerable produce during the summer and autumn. And all I do is water it with boring old council pop from the nearest stand pipe. It deserves more pampering than this. Your allotment should be placed on a pedestal and spoiled with luxuries once in a while.
So off I trooped to the supermarket and came back with a van load of pure French bottled water. I then proceeded to water the allotment bottle by bottle. As I did so I could hear the sigh of appreciation from within the core of the earth...
Aaaargh...What's going on? What time is it? We're haunted!
It's just turned Wednesday morning. 00:58 to be exact. The wardrobe doors are shaking with unrelenting intensity.
I wake up. Anxious. Then silence. Drift off back into a semi conscious state of partial alertness. The quake has passed. The dramatic interruption makes me realise the source of such a surreal dream.
Six hours earlier I am sat on a train heading out of King's Cross reading Will Self's Evening Standard column about their campaign to persuade London restaurants to offer their clientele tap water without it being requested, as they do in the States.
The point isn't to reduce the tab but to reduce the considerable waste of resources and ridiculous environmental impact due to our misguided demand for bottled water.
I normally find Will Self's writing dense and impenetrable to be pleasurable, but have big respect for the man now that he has pointed out what Evian spells backwards. Ooh that hurts.
Can I suggest that when you are next in a restaurant, and after ordering your drinks, why not say "...oh and a jug of iced water and glasses please." If you get charged for this then point out that this is why there will be no tip.
If we all do this then the message just might get through.
It provides me with periods of calm and worthwhile hard work, as well as considerable produce during the summer and autumn. And all I do is water it with boring old council pop from the nearest stand pipe. It deserves more pampering than this. Your allotment should be placed on a pedestal and spoiled with luxuries once in a while.
So off I trooped to the supermarket and came back with a van load of pure French bottled water. I then proceeded to water the allotment bottle by bottle. As I did so I could hear the sigh of appreciation from within the core of the earth...
Aaaargh...What's going on? What time is it? We're haunted!
It's just turned Wednesday morning. 00:58 to be exact. The wardrobe doors are shaking with unrelenting intensity.
I wake up. Anxious. Then silence. Drift off back into a semi conscious state of partial alertness. The quake has passed. The dramatic interruption makes me realise the source of such a surreal dream.
Six hours earlier I am sat on a train heading out of King's Cross reading Will Self's Evening Standard column about their campaign to persuade London restaurants to offer their clientele tap water without it being requested, as they do in the States.
The point isn't to reduce the tab but to reduce the considerable waste of resources and ridiculous environmental impact due to our misguided demand for bottled water.
I normally find Will Self's writing dense and impenetrable to be pleasurable, but have big respect for the man now that he has pointed out what Evian spells backwards. Ooh that hurts.
Can I suggest that when you are next in a restaurant, and after ordering your drinks, why not say "...oh and a jug of iced water and glasses please." If you get charged for this then point out that this is why there will be no tip.
If we all do this then the message just might get through.
Labels: Naive water