The soil

This time last year

I empty three bins full of disintegrating plastic bags and plant pots, oil shears, move three blueberry plants because they don't like their spot with the raspberries. Perhaps under the trees they'll be happier.

I plant a trough of herbs for a friend - a long overdue birthday present - plus two pots of rosemary and oregano. I fish leaves out of the water butt with a rake.

I separate chives, pick purple sprouting broccoli and tidy the shed. I find balls to stick on bean canes in the summer, lengths of wire and string. I plant unidentified bulbs I dug up last year and left in the greenhouse.

I pay £15 for an allotment key and hand over four co-worker forms. I pot up some mint and check the leaf-mould.

I buy two bags of first and second early potatoes, some broad beans, find green manure seed and scatter a wildflower mix.

I put a box of wood in the shed for fires, kindling undercover next to a box of paper. I disturb a large spider and a millipede.

I chat with Jeanette.

I move a foxglove, bloody sorrel, stray bluebell and three herb roberts.

It starts to rain. I tidy the shed some more. I leave for home, forgetting the forget me nots I've potted up for the garden.