David Robbins: The plot thickens as my green fingers are put to shame
We put a good deal of thought into the selection of our allotment plot. We mapped the arc of the sun, tracked the prevailing winds and paced out the distance to the water tap.
Plot 66, we reckoned, was perfect. It's true there was a tree behind us, but it was to the north and wouldn't cast any shade on our seedlings.
With our 80 square metres, we were practically landed gentry. I kept thinking of a stanza from Pope's Ode to Solitude my father was fond of quoting: "Happy the man whose wish and care/A few paternal acres bound,/Happy to breathe his native air/In his own ground."