I'm having doubts about this horticultural therapy lark.
The allotment can be a dangerous place, especially in the hands of a beginner.
I collapsed with the aortic rupture that nearly cost me my life after a morning’s toil on the soil, and in the greenhouse with my reluctant tomatoes.
And now I’m missing the tip of a finger after, ahem, an ugly incident with the scissors and a stroppy garlic plant.
I was simply cutting the bulbs off stalks that Mrs R (“just trying to help”) pulled up in mistake for weeds.
A minor task, out in the sunshine, no big deal. Ooops! Slicety-slicety, off with a tiny patch of flesh. Under the cold tap, I nearly fainted. Blood everywhere.
I’m in danger of turning into the Frank Spencer of the spud patch.
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“Oooh, Betty!” More accurately, “Oh, Mrs R, where’s the bandages box?”
The damn thing bled all night, but luckily I was due for a post-op dressings change at the surgery that morning, I had been looking for the all-clear to have them removed – and enjoy a shower.
The absolute shower (to quote Terry Thomas) was me, treated by Nurse Debbie for the injured third finger, left hand (since you ask). It now sports a big white bandage, for five days before it’s looked at again. Unless it bleeds more.
See what I mean? The undoubted therapeutic benefits of gardening and food preparation have to be balanced against the possible risks.
At least the tomatoes are ripening. One of them, anyway. I’m thinking of taking out accident insurance for the potatoes.
And being temporarily monodextrous, I’m excused dish-washing duties until tomorrow at least. So, not all bad.
