The rain dance worked but now I’m losing the plot

WELL, I asked for it, so I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. That doesn’t mean to say I won’t` because this job is a licence to grouch or it is nothing.

Anyway, my rain-dance rant last week was swiftly followed by the mother and father of storms across the county.

And it’s still raining. At this rate, the Aire Valley floods will be back.

As I begged, it chucked it down for hours – excellent news for the allotment, where the soil had been hardened almost into stone. That’s what I thought until the weather abated sufficiently for an inspection of the plot.

The peas were in the good, but some of the cabbage plants looked like they had done three rounds with Muhammad Ali.

Then it froze overnight, yet again, after the frostiest April since records began.

No blossom yet on my tiny apple tree, or it would have gone the same way as the plums. The broad beans can take it, and the garlic – as a lad I didn’t even know what it was – and the Brussels sprouts.

Onions looked a bit unhappy, so I gave them some Prince Charles words of encouragement. One water butt is overflowing, the other is filling up.

Mother Nature can be so confusing.

Yesterday, the mercury rose to the mid-teens, confirming the old Tyke saw (which I just made up): “Don’t know about this climate business, but we get a lot of weather up ’ere.”

It’s only when you become an allotmenteer that you realise how precious water is. Far too precious to be left to the foreigners, private equity merchants and venture capitalists who now control the industry. At least they don’t control the weather.