The Baby Jesus and Me - a gardening truce?

Okay, I know it should be the Baby Jesus and I, so save that little criticism!

Regular readers of this pile of pish will be aware of the fractious relationship that has developed between the Baby Jesus and myself in my two years (yes, two years, get me, I'm nearly a real gardener) of gardening. people often ask how it all came about.

"How did it all come about?" they ask.

So I tell them.

"Let me explain," I reply.

First off, most of you will know, or be aware, of the Baby Jesus. If you don't, he's the son of God, and one of the holy trinity. That's God, Baby Jesus and the Holy Ghost. Well, he was the Holy Ghost when I was a boy, but today, like Prince, he's changed his name. He's now the Holy Spirit. Ghost, of course, rhymes with toast, post, boast, most, roast, etc., giving plenty of opportunities for puerile poems. Spirit doesn't. The Pope hates puerile poems (maybe because Pope rhymes with dope, grope, rope, isotope and slippery slope) so he renamed the Holy Ghost the Holy Spirit.

Anyway, God made a virgin pregnant, and she gave birth to Baby Jesus. Then he was nailed to a tree and his followers waged war on anyone who didn't agree with them. Over a couple of thousand years, millions were killed because they didn't agree that the Christian's imaginary omnipresent deity was better than any other imaginary omnipresent deity. Anyone who didn't believe in any imaginary omnipresent deities was considered a heretic, and were therefore burned to death in a barrel.

The Christians, by the way, were the followers of the Baby Jesus, as Christ was his surname. They killed all the people that believed in other things, and burned those that believed in nothing, to bring to market their message of peace, love and goodwill to all men.

Anyway, being brought up an Irish Catholic, I had the fear of God (and the Baby Jesus) beaten into me a child, quite literally. I read the bible from cover to cover, both ways, and whenever I raised the question of the multiple contradictions, I was beaten again and told to believe. I tried, but I couldn't. Something called doubt kept creeping into my head. The Father took me to a shrink. It transpired that the Shrink had also been raised a Catholic, and shared my doubts. We smoked cigarettes and talked about football for an hour every week.

As I approached an age when I could leave home, I avoided discussing the Baby Jesus with anyone. It was for the best. Then I left home and Baby Jesus, God and the Holy Ghost ceased to be obvious in my life. Fast forward 30 odd years, and suddenly I am on the brink of gardening. One thing I was always going to grow was the potato. Then I read that it is traditional to plant out seed potatoes on Good Friday, the day that the Baby Jesus was allegedly nailed to a tree.

I found this funny, and made many jokes about it. The Baby Jesus, being omnipresent, heard every one of the jokes, and he wasn't best pleased. Now, joking about the Baby Jesus being killed and potatoes might seem childish, disrespectful and insulting to those who are fans of the fellow. Unfortunately, if you examine my personality, childish, disrespectful and insulting are all boxes that are ticked.

Skip to autumn, when my tomatoes - which took a lot of love and care and hard work - were heavy with fruit. One day they were fine. Then something happened. The blight arrived. The minute I saw the devastation I knew; it was the work of the Baby Jesus. He'd done me, and I deserved it. So what did I do? Obviously, I made a bigger joke about him being killed, and me laughing about it, and him blighting me in revenge. No one was therefore surprised when this year I was blighted again. No one was less surprised than me ... and the Baby Jesus. We both knew.

Here's the irony. The Baby Jesus is trying to teach me a lesson, but I can't learn that lesson, because I don't believe in the Baby Jesus. Catch 22 has got nothing on this.

So we're locked in the cycle. I can't sow my seed potatoes on Good Friday without having a chuckle, and he can't let me have tomatoes as a result.

The other day I went to a farewell bash for a friend, who has sold up and is heading off to Laos to study Buddhism. I took him a small gift; a t-shirt I had made that read "Jesus saves ... but Buddha scores from the rebound!" As I handed it over I did think that the Baby Jesus was going to get me for it. The next morning I received a letter from the council.

Last winter, have completed my first year of gardening, I realised that certain slow growing crops that demand space just weren't going to work for me. Onions, leeks, celeriac, fennel, etc., were off the list, and some crops such as cabbages and kale would have to be limited. I applied to go on the Local Authority allotment waiting list. The letter was from the Amenities department. It basically pointed out that there were only four plots at the allotment site, and I was number 6,846,682 on the waiting list. I wasn't going to get a plot if I lived all the years of Methuselah. I sensed the hand of the Baby Jesus in this letter.

Then I got to the last paragraph. It started with the word However. I sensed an olive branch. Maybe the Holy Ghost had realised I preferred his real name to his Vatican-imposed name, and had leaned on the Baby Jesus for me. Could this be a truce between myself and the Baby Jesus?

A new allotment association was being formed. It had nothing to do with the Local Authority, but they gave me the contact details. Now, I knew that the other 6,846,681 people before me on the waiting list also received the letter, as did anyone after me on the list, so I did what any self-respecting bloke on the way to the pub would do, and ignored it. A day passed, two days, three days, a week and then I thought "nothing ventured..." so I sent off an email.

I received a reply, along with about another dozen people (according to the header of the email), asking for volunteers to help establish the association, along with an update on the work in progress. This time I replied immediately. 

Now, no one has said I have got a plot, but no one has said I haven't got a plot. It's hanging in the balance. Of course, the Baby Jesus might have seen my plans for growing tomatoes under cover and is looking for a new way to smite me! Or maybe...

If it is the former, I swear I shall put a crucifix in my front garden on Christmas Day and a nativity scene will go there at Easter.