At a greenish event this weekend, I bumped into one of the organizers of the local garden share scheme. You might remember how that ended for us, some sixteen months ago. I’ve no grudge against the organizer, though: far from it, as she’s lovely.
It turns out that the dreadful woman we had trouble with – suffered is too strong a word; our broad beans grew fairly well in pots in our own garden – has now taken to her bed. Permanently, as they say. This sort of tale only ever ends well for people who have a strong network of friends or family to help them out of their situation, and she has pretty much systematically alienated both.
I don’t know how to feel about this. I was half expecting it, but didn’t expect to feel how I did when the organizer mentioned it to me: flat, idly interested, as though overhearing someone else’s conversation on the bus. Now, I don’t know. Going back to the group – which I’ve occasionally felt like doing in the past year, although always shied away from any possible contact with her – would seem rather pointed now; getting in touch with her in any shape or form would be an exercise in futility.
Essentially, I feel like something ought to happen; which I suppose it is, but a little more distant from me than I would expect a plot (in which I’ve had a bit part) to do.