Marestail's back. Actually, it's been back for a few weeks. But only now is it starting to really get under my skin.
This Jurassic weed is an allotment Terminator. It can't be reasoned with. It can't be bargained with. It feels no pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop – ever – until you are dead.
You can't kill marestail. You really can't. I've tried everything, including some chemical preparations I blush to recall. I've had to learn to live with it. It creeps evilly around my plot like the poisonous, infirm parent in the granny flat.
Everyone's got a theory about how to kill it. Some even know how to kill it. But they're all certifiable. Here's a recent conversation with a fellow allotmenteer:
Him: "See you've got horsetail, then."
Me: "Yes, it's a bugger isn't it?"
Him: "If you keep pulling it out, it takes five years to eradicate."
Me, brightening: "So there's hope then. How long you had your plot?"
Him: "22 years."
Me: "So you've got rid of yours, then?"
Him, confidently: "Yup. Hoed the last bit yesterday."