Sinking Dough

 

Well, what a week it’s been! You’d think after all these years I’d have learned to take things one job at a time, but no — apparently I’m still the sort of bloke who decides to rebuild an entire corner of the garden while juggling allotment news, collapsing machinery, and a bread mixer that’s gone on strike.

Let’s start with the big one — my old shed. Now, when I say “old,” I don’t just mean weathered. This thing’s practically a member of the family. Me and my father-in-law built it over thirty years ago. At first, it stood proudly as a greenhouse — plastic gleaming, staging full of young bedding plants, and that lovely warm smell of compost and seedlings on a sunny morning. Honestly, I reckon millions of bedding plants have passed under that roof over the years. I used to stand there with a brew, feeling like a proper nurseryman.

But as the years went on, one sheet split, another one slipped, and eventually, I did what most gardeners do when a greenhouse starts to show its age — I filled it in. Out went the plastic sheeting, in went the boards, and just like that it became a shed. Not just any shed, mind you. This was my workshop, my storage hub, my little fortress of solitude. It’s held lawnmowers, strimmers, odd tools I’ve had since the ‘80s, and even a few things I’ve no memory of ever buying.

But lately, the poor thing’s been going the same way as an old compost bin — crumbling from the bottom up. The floorboards have had enough, the sides are bowing, and the roof waves in the wind like it’s saying its last goodbyes. After a lot of humming and hawing, I’ve finally decided: enough is enough. Time for a new one.

Now, when I say “new shed,” I don’t mean a little six-by-four job. Oh no. I want a proper shed — one that you can actually work in without having to shuffle sideways. But of course, I can’t just plonk it where the old one is, because that would be far too simple. No, the spot I’ve chosen means I have to move not one but two greenhouses and a smaller shed that’s also half falling down.

Before I can even start, I’ve got to make sure the fence between us and the neighbours is strong enough to stand up to a good storm. The last thing I need is my new greenhouses playing dominoes with their flowerbeds. So Monday morning, I ordered new fence posts and a few bags of concrete. Then came the delightful job of digging out the old post bases — the sort of job that sounds easy until you realise they’re buried halfway to Australia.

The panels themselves are still in decent nick, so they’ll get another few years’ service, but those old posts were wobblier than a jelly in an earthquake. By Tuesday evening, I’d managed to uncover half of them and already earned myself a bad back, a splinter, and an appreciation for whoever invented ready-mix concrete.

Down on the Allotment

Now, moving on from the home front — the allotment’s been its usual mix of calm and chaos. I still haven’t managed to bring the merry tiller home for repairs. I keep saying “next weekend,” but between everything else going on, the poor thing’s sitting there waiting patiently like a loyal dog at the gate.

This week was rent week at the allotments — the annual ritual where everyone turns up, clutching their money and muttering about how fast the year’s gone. Now, I don’t know what other people pay for their plots, but I reckon ours are quite reasonable — forty quid per plot per year, and that even includes the water rates. Not bad, is it?

But here’s the shocker — the committee’s gone all modern! Gone are the days of paying your rent in cash to a bloke with a clipboard and a pencil stub. Oh no — this year, when I turned up bright and early Sunday morning, money in hand, I was greeted by two committee members tapping away on a laptop. I nearly dropped my tenner in the mud.

“Just updating your plot details,” one of them said, eyes glued to the screen. “We’re digital now.”

I tell you, I’ve been on that allotment for over twenty years, and I never thought I’d see the day when technology invaded the shed. Apparently, all our plot numbers and payments are now on “the system,” and even the manure orders are being logged by laptop.

Speaking of manure — they’ve come up with a cracking idea. The committee’s now selling manure by the ton, with all proceeds going back into the allotment funds. You order it right there on their laptop — no more scribbled notes on bits of cardboard. They’re even planning to do the same with wood chippings if they can strike a deal with some local tree surgeons.

So we might be seeing the dawn of a new era — the digital allotment! I can just picture it: Wi-Fi in the polytunnels and QR codes on the compost heaps. Though knowing our lot, someone will still prefer writing it all in a notebook with a bit of mud on the pages — and rightly so.

Baking Blues

And as if collapsing sheds and computerised compost weren’t enough, my baking day this week took a bit of a turn for the worse. I’d been singing the praises of my new dough mixer for the last couple of weeks. Honestly, I was starting to think it was the best thing since sliced bread — quite literally. But as luck would have it, mid-mix, it decided it had had enough.

One minute it was whirring away beautifully, and the next it started screaming like a banshee. Slowed down… groaned… and then stopped dead. There I was, staring at it like I’d just witnessed a small domestic tragedy. I half expected smoke signals to rise from the motor.

So, I rolled up my sleeves and went back to the old ways — kneading by hand. I’ll tell you what, after fifteen minutes of that, I remembered why I bought the mixer in the first place. And after all that effort, what did I get? Another Pullman tin loaf disaster.

It’s the third one that’s done it to me — refused to rise no matter how long I waited. I don’t know what it is about those tins, but something’s not right. I’ve baked hundreds of loaves over the years, and never have I had such stubborn dough. It’s as if the tins are cursed!

If anyone reading this has had the same trouble with Pullman tins, do let me know. Misery loves company, after all.

Anyway, my mixer went straight back to the great Amazon warehouse in the sky — well, technically to their returns department — and I got a full refund. Naturally, I spent it immediately on another one, this time a Morphy Richards. Let’s hope this one lasts longer than two weeks.

So, What Next?

So there you have it — one week, three half-finished jobs, and a loaf that could be used as a doorstop. The shed project’s officially underway (or at least the fence bit is), the allotment’s embracing the digital age, and my new dough mixer’s on its way.

Next week, I’m hoping to get those new fence posts concreted in and maybe — if the weather behaves — start shifting one of the greenhouses. I’ll also bring the merry tiller home for its much-needed TLC.

If nothing else, it’s never dull, is it? One minute I’m wrestling fence posts, the next I’m chatting about laptops and manure, and by thw weekend I’m in the kitchen, wrestling dough that refuses to rise. But that’s life, isn’t it? Always something to keep you busy, always something to laugh about — even if it’s through gritted teeth and a cloud of flour.