Roots Manouvre

Spent a lovely couple of sunshiney hours down the allotment today. I have had this tune in my head all day since re-potting the tomato plants.

I've been thinking about my Grandad quite a bit recently - there are 2 things in my life that immediately send me back to him, the first is a pair of bobbly, threadbare, grey, woolly bedsocks that I pinched when I knew he was sick and the other is the smell of the tomato plants in our greenhouse. As soon as I smell them I am immediately back in HIS green house, aged about 8 years old.

My Grandad's greenhouse was a sacred place, a place of wonderment, secrets and magic. He loved his greenhouse and I can clearly picture him toiling away, tenderly caring for his plants and flowers. I was never allowed in there (which meant I was always in there, poking at things and smelling things and rubbing things and rummaging around). I would step inside and the combination of fear of my Grandad finding me in there and the smell of the tomatoes made my head spin.

When he was ill, I told him I was in his greenhouse quite a lot when I was wee and he nodded his head and said 'I know, darlin'. I know. You were always a curious wee crater'.