The builders were delayed for a day because of torrential rain yesterday, which is good as I'd forgotten about them, but not so good as I'm now in anticipation of the advent of them into my life, unknown blokes, right outside my windows just when I'm starting to want those windows to be open. They may be talkers (talking about what?), or they may hate each other and snipe all day. Or we could end up mates and all will be fine and dandy.

I went to the allotment today with SC to deliver the bags of leaves from my garden and found it very difficult. My main thought was to get out of there and back into my little flat. Luckily SC is a recoverer and has used many of the same techniques as me to maintain some kind of equilibrium so she was able to ask pertinent questions that set my mind at a different angle.

So the problem is that last year the allotment was a marvellous addition to my life, calming, nourishing, exercising, social, creative, using stores of knowledge and expertise I'd forgotten I had and being appreciated for that - to say nothing of delicious free organic veg, eaten on day of picking.

Yet I haven't wanted anything to do with it since I started fundraising for YD's wheelchair accessible vehicle, which was the end of August. Whenever I think of going up there I flinch and so far we've let it be - there's so much else going on that I don't need to feel guilty if I don't want to go there. But there's a difference between self-protection and avoidance and when something that has been a pleasure for over thirty years suddenly becomes unavailable, it's time to give it a second look.

"So," says SC. "What's your 'hot thought'?" I wouldn't call it a hot thought, but I know what she means. What's that voice saying, the one that disappears in a hot flash of shame before you can catch it, the one hiding behind the excuses.

Part of mine is that I don't want to share, unless I am in charge. I don't want MK (SC's wife) constantly rearranging the fucking tools and equipment, every time she goes up there so I always spend fucking ages looking for basic stuff like the secateurs or the coffee. She doesn't do gardening and is also a recoverer and calms herself by ordering, but it makes me crazy. (Actually, I can cope with that, I just need to moan about it, once I'd written that down I remembered and felt the love I have for MK, so it's not that.)

There's something about not wanting to take pleasure in things while ED is how she is, that I'm still unravelling. About gardening being based on hope, on faith in the future, on effort now being rewarded later. Not on speaking terms with any of those untrustworthy bastards right now.

Though I'm kind of tempted to try and make what I'm thinking of as a garden of solace in the middle section up there. SC is cracking on with the veg and we always did intend to have an ornamental sitting place halfway up. Foreshortening is a bugger - the plot is massive - I took this from the bottom today, but I'm thinking in the middle which gets squashed to nothing in this pic:



I've got loads of trellis which could be cobbled together for sweet-scented things like honeysuckle and jasmine to grow over - I already have one of each of those struggling away in pots - they'd thrive in the sunshine, with their roots in the good earth. And peonies.

The unknown brassica turned out to be purple sprouting broccoli, which sat there glumly all winter and burst forth last weekend according to SC:



I grabbed a goodly handful which I put in the pot I was cooking linguine in, just on top for the last few minutes, then added it all to my pan of crisp chopped bacon, a bit of pesto and some creme fraiche. Tomato and basil salad on the side. Delicious. There's also rhubarb ready to go, so I stewed a bit of that with some fresh grated ginger and had it with yoghurt and honey. Also delicious - I mean, really, what am I fucking about at? The taste of food fresh from the ground is sheer bliss.

Anyway, nearly 1 am, builders due in seven hours, offski.

Today I am grateful for: SC, getting me up there, helping with the heavy, rain-sodden sacks of leaves; writing here making me feel better than before I started; bumping into Y, from my recovery group and having a coffee and a long chat and a hug; Bloke coming to the supermarket to carry the cat food home; tomorrow being another day, Cynthia (don't know why Cynthia always pops into mymind at the end of that phrase, but she does)

Sweet dreams xx