Hoe, hoe, hoe

I've got an allotment, and before you imagine you can hear the creak of someone jumping onto the bandwagon or think that I've gone all Joe Swifty, I've had mine for 15 years. Yes, back in the days when you were allowed a bit of convulvulus and sheds didn't have curtains from Kath Whatsername. I've also got a completely bonkers allotment neighbour.

'You don't find many of these around nowadays' he boomed the other day, effortlessly finding me as I hid behind the sweetcorn. 'It's really useful. Look.' Dropping to his knees he started stabbing at a row of beetroot.

'It's a hoe'
'You just don't find them anymore. Look at the workmanship'
'But, it's a hoe'

At this point he gave me the sort of pitying look I'd give him if I wasn't so nice (cowardly.)

'Why don't you get a handle put on it?'
'Now there's an idea. I know just the man for the job too. Real craftsman.'

Two days later he turned up with a broom handle stuck into the hoe. I was weeding on my knees with a hand fork, anathema to a hoer (which sounds a bit like an Irish lady of the night except that we don't get many of them on the allotments).

'I'd lend it to you, but you have to know how to use it properly' he said, just before the handle fell off.