Who turned the fan off?

That's what it was like, someone turning a fan off. It was really windy on the allotment this morning; stuff blowing away, having to have bricks put on it, howling in the trees, too windy to have a bonfire, that sort of thing. Then at 20 past 2 it stopped. Just like that, it stopped, as though someone had switched a fan off.

It felt like what I imagine it's like when the eye of a hurricane passes over. So now I'm waiting for it to start again but in the opposite direction!

Notwithstanding the wind (so to speak) I got loads done today. The side path is now clear and tidy, ready to be kept down with the strimmer, the hedge is cut, I've two huge piles of stuff ready for bonfires. I've manured the blackberries (IDEA - put some netting over them this year to stop Mester Nutkins scoffing them all before I can get to them). Mester - a Sheffield word, derived from Mr and normally applied to a craftsman. Sheffield's iconic silverware & cutlery trade was based on hundreds of Little Mesters working in craft workshops all around the city. Now they're mostly in museums. It's also in general use in Sheffield as a general purpose word for a bloke.

There now, you come to a blog about allotments and get some etymological culture about Sheffield blokes, as related to Squirrel Nutkins.

But I digress. I've also dug and manured half of plot 4 and painted the shed with lovely brown jollop. It's been a positive hive of activity. Ivan-next-door was there and busy, as was bloke-next-to-Ivan, along with woman-below-Ivan (steady on) and woman-below-bloke-next-to-Ivan. And you used to think allotmenting was a wholesome activity?

And now for a historical perspective. It's 3 and a half years since I took this plot over so it's worth looking at:

how it was

and how it is

courtesy of a horny-handed son of toil.