Autumns fingers creep over Clougha and finger the plot imatiently. Enough of early springs and late Summers 'it's my turn now'.
Gaze at our Big Brassica Bed. Doomed, all doomed. What a bummer!
A sniggering laugh from the shadows
'you bet they are'
In the gloom twixt shed and greenhouse a fleeting movement
'You're Clubroot aren't you, why don't you just fuck off and leave us alone'?
'That's not my real name', the shape drifts back.
'Oh, I know your real name and I know (spit) your pH and I almost saw you then'.
'Oh yeah! What do I look like then'?
'Sort of a cross between Alfred Hitchcock and that big eejit in Little Britain'.
Clubroot grunts, irritated now. 'Hmmphh, well I'm stopping anyway and this Globular Warming will help me nicely thank you....think I might just spread out a bit too'.
'It's Global Warming idiot and don't even think about it or I'll push your pH up to 8...maybe even 9 and starve you to death'.
'Globular Smobular whatever. I don't starve easily and where are you going to get your brassicas from then'?
'Oh, that'll be satisfying won't it', Clubroot sarcastic now.
A shed plank whacks Clubroot where it hurts.....'OUCH'!
Twilight deepens and children gather to play hide and seek on the allotments, careless like the fairies from the bottom of yer garden.