As you sow

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.

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This entry was posted in age, body, cliques, enmity, environment, garden, infirmity, location, neighbours, person, society. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to As you sow

  1. looby says:

    Maybe leave it an interval sufficient to make your reappearance look less consequential upon her incapacity?

  2. smallbeds says:

    Yes, I think that would probably be best. It still feels oddly unstable, all these things balancing right on the fringe of my day-to-day experiences. Knowing that, for example, “taking to her bed” probably means the downstairs chaise longue I saw and had a twinge of pity, back when I didn’t despise her. It’s the same haunted feeling I sometimes get in Oxford, I suppose.

  3. Pingback: In that rich earth | Small Beds and Large Bears

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