The soil clings to the rake on the allotments. My hands are crusted with mud. Another 50 red onions are planted.
The afternoon brings more allotmenteers, washing their spades in the old bathtubs, talking about the vaccine, comforting themselves with mutual gloom.
I sit on a folding chair placed on the grassy path. Plastic bottles are upended over sticks, the usual collection of bins and baths, sheds and frameworks darken in the gathering dusk. The first few drops of rain. Lights come on in the houses. It is time to go home for tea.