It all began, as many British tragedies do, with a gazebo.
Councillor Graham Peabody stood proudly on Plot 17, arms akimbo, watching the structure take shape.
“It’s not just a gazebo,” he told Lorraine, reclining inside it with a copy of Take a Break and a gin in a Thermos. “It’s a statement. A vision of what allotments could be.”
“It’s got fairy lights, Graham,” she replied, squinting at him over her sunglasses. “It’s a shed with pretensions.”
Arnold Phipps, on neighbouring Plot 18, peered over the fence like a meerkat in a cardigan.
“This is a desecration,” he muttered. “It’s page 14, Section B—no permanent structures. It’s not just the rulebook, Lorraine. It’s the constitution.”
“Who made you Cromwell of the cabbages?” Lorraine shot back.
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The first salvo was a laminated letter:
Dear Mr. Peabody,
You are in violation of Regulation 14-B.
Kindly remove the structure before I am forced to escalate.
Yours in compost,
A. Phipps (Ret’d)
Graham snorted. “Escalate? What’s he going to do, mulch me?”
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By the following week, Arnold had deployed The Drone.
“He’s got a camera on it now,” Graham growled, swatting at the air. “Keeps buzzing it over the gazebo. Yesterday I caught him taking infrared readings of my onions.”
“I think he’s trying to get a close-up of my knees,” Lorraine added. “Pervert.”
Graham retaliated with a row of Jerusalem artichokes.
“Living barricade,” he explained, thumping a root. “Can’t surveil what you can’t see.”
Arnold responded by flying two drones, one with night vision and the other trailing a tiny banner that read REMOVE STRUCTURE OR FACE CONSEQUENCES.
Plot 12’s scarecrow was decapitated during a low pass.
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The final straw came on a dewy morning in May.
Graham strolled into the allotment whistling Land of Hope and Glory, cradling an obscenely large marrow. As he pushed open his gate, a hidden tripwire snapped.
THWACK.
A rake sprung upward with military precision, catching Graham squarely in the forehead. He staggered back, stunned, as a cloud of pepper spray hissed out from a nearby flower pot.
Lorraine screamed from the gazebo.
“Oh my God, Graham!”
“Who the hell traps an allotment?” he roared, clutching his face. “Is this The Somme?!”
Arnold popped his head over the fence, holding the remote for the drone.
“I warned you,” he said, adjusting his tie. “You leave me no choice but horticultural warfare.”
Graham charged at the fence, flailing with the marrow.
“YOU’LL HAVE TO PRY THIS COURGETTE FROM MY COLD, STINGING HANDS!”
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The next day, the local paper featured a front-page story:
“COUNCILLOR MAIMED IN ALLOTMENT WARFARE” Feud between vegetable growers escalates to chemical incident.
Lorraine sold her version of events to The Daily Mail, claiming “My gazebo romance turned into a war zone.” She was photographed draped across a wheelbarrow in leopard print.
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The council responded with sweeping reform.
All “non-regulation structures” were banned. Gazebos, hot tubs, and decorative buddhas were removed. Graham resigned in disgrace and took up pottery.
Arnold was banned for “weaponising gardening implements,” though he still sends legal threats via drone.
And Lorraine?
She married the man from Plot 12—he had a greenhouse, three hens, and didn’t care about rules or Tripwires.
The allotments, now peaceful once more, remain under the vigilant eye of Mrs. Drabble.
Who has since installed CCTV, reinforced her shed, and told several people: “If anyone so much as touches my rhubarb, I’ll strangle them with twine.”