Last week’s weather seemed to make a firm decision and then double down on it. Rain. Damp. Grey. Not the dramatic kind of winter weather you can admire from the window — just the sort that soaks everything slowly and leaves you questioning your life choices. The allotment didn’t stand a chance. The soil was waterlogged, the paths were slippery enough to warrant insurance forms, and every step felt like the ground was quietly trying to keep my boots as souvenirs.
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Naturally, I went anyway. You always do, don’t you? You convince yourself you’ll “just check a couple of things,” which quickly turns into standing there, hands on hips, muttering about drainage while slowly sinking. After a few minutes of this nonsense, common sense eventually kicked in and I retreated. There’s no point battling soil when it’s had enough. That’s not gardening — that’s stubbornness dressed up as optimism.
By the time I’d cleaned the mud off myself and everything else, the day had already started to disappear. December has a habit of stealing daylight when you’re not looking. One minute it’s afternoon, the next it’s evening, and suddenly I’m heading off to work in the dark. There’s something about going to work after the sun’s gone down that feels deeply unfair. It’s like the day has already finished, yet somehow you’re expected to start again.
The darkness has a way of dragging a shift out far longer than the clock admits. Every hour feels suspiciously similar to the one before it. You check the time, convinced it must be later, only to discover it’s barely moved. The lights hum, the shadows sit heavy, and the night stretches on like it’s got nowhere better to be. Winter evenings don’t pass — they loiter.
By the time I head home, it’s still dark, of course. You leave in the dark, you return in the dark, and somewhere in between daylight apparently happened without you. It does strange things to your sense of time. Days blur together, and before you know it, Christmas is looming whether you’re prepared or not.
With the weather putting a stop to outdoor jobs, and evenings spent working under artificial light, preparation for Christmas began in the quieter moments. Not in a frantic way — more of a slow, creeping organisation. Freezers were checked, lists were made, and there was the usual discovery of items that had been carefully stored away and then completely forgotten about. Sara, as ever, knows exactly what everything is. I provide moral support and occasional confusion.
Baking crept into the routine too. There’s something reassuring about coming home from a long, dark shift and knowing there’s something decent waiting — or at least the ingredients for it. Proper baking, done the old way, warms more than just the kitchen. It’s a reminder that even when the days are short and the weather’s miserable, some things stay solid and reliable.
The shed also saw a bit more use. Dark, wet weeks are perfect for tinkering. Tools were cleaned, sharpened, and put back where they belong — only to be moved again because “that’s a better place for it.” There’s comfort in small, practical jobs when the world outside feels permanently soggy and black.
The allotment, meanwhile, waits patiently. Winter has a way of forcing you to slow down whether you want to or not. There’s time now to think about the year gone by — what worked, what didn’t, and what definitely won’t be repeated next season. There were good days up there with Sam and Iris, plenty of graft, plenty of laughs, and the occasional moment of standing around wondering how things got quite so muddy so quickly.
Inside the house, the signs of Christmas are starting to appear. Not all at once — just little hints. Lamps on earlier. More cups of tea. Talk of what needs doing and what can probably wait. The rain outside feels slightly less offensive when you’re warm, fed, and not expected to go back out into it.
So yes, last week was wet, dark, and stubbornly uncooperative. The kind of week where the weather wins, the daylight disappears, and work shifts stretch longer than they should. But Christmas is edging closer, the preparations are ticking along, and the allotment will still be there when the ground finally dries out.
Until then, I’ll keep heading out into the dark, coming home in the dark, and reminding myself that the light does come back eventually — even if it’s taking its time this year.
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