My garden is rather like an unruly teenager.
I love it to bits, and it can be beautiful and amazing; a constant surprise and
delight. But most of the time it just throws its stuff all over the floor
and annoys the neighbours. I don't think it's decided yet whether it's an
Emo or a Goth.
I believe it will eventually respond to love
and good sense, so I spent some time on Saturday picking autumn leaves out of
the lavender. Then I realised that my back was going again, so I wandered
round with the secateurs, feeling rather like Morticia Adams {but less
elegantly dressed} snipping dry, straggly brown stuff off the hanging
baskets.
My beloved takes a different approach, imposing a
somewhat strict regime on his garden. Enforced good conduct and
discipline is the order of the day there. {Get your hedge cut, you
horrible little bush.} I must admit, his garden is much better behaved than
mine, but I can't help worrying that it's just biding its time waiting for the
chance to rebel. I know that my garden will have a wild party whenever I
go on holiday, but he can never be sure about his.
In case you were wondering, yes, I do have gardening
gloves. At least, I have gloves that I wear in the garden, which I
suppose isn't quite the same. Proper gardening gloves all seem to be made
to fit the Jolly Green Giant so, having rather small hands, I can't pick up
anything when I'm wearing them. At the same time, they're so short
and loose round the wrist that they keep filling with earth, which rather
defeats the object. I wear ordinary thermal gloves with elasticated
wrists, but perhaps when the weather gets a bit warmer I'll try the full
Morticia and wear my long satin evening gloves.
