smokingboot

So, after a fine night's game of Vampire, the morning dawns bright and beautiful and I recall my beloved's admonition to rake up the grass he's cut in the back garden.

This means going through the conservatory, often a very chilled out place but currently, under the influence of a sudden sunburst, turning into dead man's gulch. I water everything. I look at the ornamental fig trees mooching in the corners.

Catherine-Zeta-Jones-Lookalike is constantly banging on about the glorious fresh smell of fig trees back in her homeland, somewhere in the mountains of Israel. Lovely though she is, she's also clearly mad. They smell of bugger all. Put them in the shade, they wilt. Put them in the light, they fade. Move them at all, even if it's from a terrible place to a good place, and they throw a strop, chuck all their leaves and then, naked and reproachful, mope at you for months on end. Don't anyone ever buy me one of these stupid things again!

Then I move out into the hell that is the back garden. This is really bad. There's hebe here, and some foxgloves and that's kind of it on the flower front. Weeds are many, including ragwort and two strange looking things with malevolent thorns. I have raked stuff up like a good girl, but the garden is a huge travail ahead of us, and short of using an eco-unfriendly weedkiller it's looking next to impossible.

What we need are a couple of rabbits. Or a goat. Incredibly, there are no rabbit/goat hiring facilities in the neighbourhood. But there is a farm, with goats. Maybe I could borrow one for a week. The goat-owners may think I'm crazy. Maybe I could kidnap a goat for a week.

Maybe I should stay away from gardening. I don't think it's good for me.