In the morning, Nadine took me to Grow Lewisham’s allotment site down near Beckenham on Oldstead Road. They had taken a delivery of trees and we helped plant an orchard. There were all kinds of trees - fig, apple, plum, pear, peach, cherry - we planted an apple and I helped out with a fig, then we did a little currant bush as well. It was decent craic, there’s something primal about digging holes. You hit some rock and are met by the immovable earth, or so it seems. You get a fork and graft and further down you go, to who knows where? Two brothers came down with their three little boys and they were all getting right stuck in. I chatted to one about how he was tearing his hair out trying to teach them about patience, and that growing food was the lightbulb moment. We finished up with cups of tea and a veggie curry someone cooked up using all ingredients from their own garden plot. I felt like I was overdosing on wholesomeness.
On the 153 over there, someone was playing Bangarang by Skrillex on repeat. I could hear it from the top deck and was lightly losing my rag. I easily blocked it out with headphones but that’s not the point. I didn’t see who it was but thought about how 20 years ago it was almost guaranteed to be a spotty 15-year old. Nowadays, you might hear some shite on a phone loudspeaker, turn around and see a middle-aged father-of-three. I get second-hand embarrassment, tut and wonder if this is a symptom of getting old or rightful observation of public decency disintegrating. Deep down, I know I’m right.
Thankfully, we got a lift home and I treated myself to a bath with all the salts and watched the second half of the Newcastle game. It was the relaxation equivalent of taking uppers and downers to try and level out. Waste of time.