The Allotment Inspection

The Little Allotment on which Nosher and I have our plots is owned by the Local Authority, and every year someone from the Council comes to inspect that we are behaving ourselves and not using it for illicit purposes. For years we used to look forward to our annual inspection because the man who carried it out, Bert, was head of the Council's gardening team, a keen allotment gardener himself and an old friend. So Bert's annual visit was an occasion to get out the parsnip wine and have a friendly chat.
Then, last year, Bert retired, gave up his allotment, and moved away from the area. Rumour was rife as to who the new allotment inspector would be, but the Chair of our allotment committee, Gordon the Moron, was giving nothing away.
And so, one afternoon recently, when Nosher and me were toiling away on our little plots on an otherwise empty allotment, a shiny new car turned off the lane onto the muddy dirt track that leads up to the allotment. There were two women in it, and neither looked thrilled about what they saw.
'If this is the allotment inspection, where the hell is Gordon the Moron?' Nosher asked, a rhetorical gesture since he knew I had no answer.
The car stopped about a hundred yards from us, and the two women got out, the expressions on their faces indicating they would much rather be somewhere else, perhaps visiting a dead relative, anywhere else but here.
'They're certainly not dressed for the occasion' I remarked 'look more like office workers to me.'
The younger of the two women held a clipboard, and, in their sensible office shoes, a few faltering steps towards us revealed that their greatest enemy was mud, and perhaps vanity. At this point the older one looked across at us, hardly able to conceal her disgust at what she saw.
Admittedly, Nosher is not the epitome of fashionable elegance in allotment wear: a torn and frayed jacked sits atop a ragged shirt that probably saw service in the Boer war, his faded brown trousers are held up by a piece of bailer twine, and his black wellingtons are replete with a large pink sticking plaster across the toe of the right foot, covering up the hole that he accidentally made with his fork a couple of days ago. I have to confess my appearance is not much better.
'Excuse me!' the older woman calls out. 'Can you help us?'
At this point Nosher gave me a conspiratorial wink, then turned with his best Norman Stanley Fletcher smile to address the two women.
'Where-ever you think you are' said Nosher 'You don't want to be here, believe me. This is no place for well-dressed women. I suggest you go home.'
On hearing this the older of the two women gave Nosher a scornful glare.
'I'll have you know I'm Councillor Audrey Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss, chair of the Estates Committee, and my companion is Ms Tracy Dewhurst, Manager of the Estates Department. We're here to carry out the allotment inspection, and whether you like it or not, that's exactly what we're going to do!'
Nosher chuckled happily at the thought of these two ignoramuses inspecting our allotment.
'Well, in that case, I'd better help you' he said. Since Nosher had a rule about never volunteering for anything, this meant mischief was afoot. As we trudged through the mud towards the two women, it became clearer that the younger of the two, who was only in her twenties, was completely out of her depth, clutching her clipboard as if her life depended upon it.
Nosher stopped a short distance away and looked them up and down as if inspecting their attire.
'Have either of you ever been on an allotment before?' he asked 'and, as a politician, Councillor Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss, I expect an answer that is at least intelligible.'
'No' Tracy Dewhurst replied without hesitation. I was beginning to like her.
'In all my years as Town Councillor' said Councillor Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss evasively 'I have visited hundreds of locations in my official capacity, amongst which have been numerous sites devoted to horticulture.'
'I'll take that as a "no" then', said Nosher.
At that moment the bird that, as children, we used to call the 'squeaky-gate bird' started its characteristic call up in the trees. Nosher looked across to where the sound came from, and then, a faint smile playing across his lips, looked the two women up and down again.
'Great Tits' he remarked, looking the Councillor straight in the eyes.
'I beg your pardon!' spluttered Counciller Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss with great indignation 'I haven't come here to be insulted!'
Meanwhile Tracy Dewhurst looked down at the ground trying not to smile. I thought I detected a slight reddening of her face, but she obviously knew the game was up.
'Do you know nothing about the countryside?' Nosher asked of the Counciller, a mischievous smile playing across his face 'that's Great Tits you can hear calling, look, there's one over there in the willows, and over on the other side of the allotment in the beech tree there's another one calling back.' He looked across at Tracy Dewhurst with a much friendlier smile. 'Now, why don't you give me that clipboard Ms Dewhurst, and I'll save you a lot of trouble by ticking the boxes for you.'
Meanwhile, the Councillor's face had contorted into a savage grimace.
'I haven't come here to play games with you!' she announced 'I'm here to look for an excuse to close this allotment down so that we can sell it and use the money to refurbish the council offices.'
On hearing this Nosher's face assumed an expression of unalloyed joy and triumph.
'Well, Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss, you may like to think you'll get away with it, but I can assure you that you won't succeed. For one thing, the allotment's kept up perfectly, and secondly, if you'd read the legal paperwork attached to the deeds of this ground, you will discover a restrictive covenant that prevents the Council from ever selling it or using it for any purpose other than as allotments for the people of this area.'
Nosher finished with a flourish, took the clipboard from an unresisting Tracy Dewhurst, and commenced ticking the appropriate boxes on the inspection form.
Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss stared at these proceedings with as much aplomb as she could muster, which was very little. At last, after gazing around like a drowning sailor searching for a liferaft, her eyes lit up and she pointed at something at the far end of the allotment.
'There!' she cried 'there! That great pile of mess! That's a clear sign you are not keeping this place clean and tidy - I can fail the inspection on that alone!' Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss's face twisted itself into an expression of evil joy. In return Nosher looked upon her with a mixture of pity and scorn.
'That' he said 'is a compost heap. Every little plot on the allotment has one. It's an accepted part of running an allotment. You can't fail the inspection because of what you think are untidy compost heaps - they're meant to be like that. You'll just make yourself look an idiot, but then you wouldn't have to try too hard.'
With this he handed the clipboard back to Tracy Dewhurst.
Whilst Tracy Dewhurst averted her face from the Councillor's gaze (for the former was doing her best not to give in to helpless laughter) Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss stared hopelessly at Nosher. She knew she'd met her match.
'I won't forget you' she said, her voice full of resentment 'what is your name?'
'Everyone calls me Nosher' said Nosher helpfully.
'I will be putting in a formal complaint to the Chairman of the Allotment Committee about your behaviour' said Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss through gritted teeth.
'Be my guest' replied Nosher 'what will you complain about - that we helped you identify some Great Tits or that we helped you tick the boxes on the form because you didn't know what a compost heap looks like? Either way, Gordon the Moron will think you're an idiot.'
'Gordon the Moron?' Mrs Orme-Hetherington-Bayliss stuttered. 'You mean Gordon Brown? How can you be so disrespectful?!'
'Because' said Nosher 'although you politicians are doing your best to make it otherwise, this is still a free country, well, almost, and I speak as I find. The reason Gordon the Moron was not here to meet you was probably because he couldn't face ten minutes in your company so chickened out. Make of that what you wish, I've some digging to do.'
And with that Nosher turned and we both trudged back to our little plots, whilst behind us we could here the strained sounds of a car being reversed back down the muddy track by someone who had never quite got the hang of reversing a car in a straight line.
As we resumed our digging on our little plots it occurred to me that ignorance has its uses, especially when that ignorance resides in other people. As to the ethics of exploiting other people's ignorance, that is perhaps best left for another discussion.
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