And Then, The Garden...

Where the hell did those days go? Lost in the garden, that’s where. Why? Well, the hard part of the garden, the pea gravel, is separated from the soft bits, the bedding borders, by log effect wooden edging. Below isn’t ours, but stuff like this is wot I’m talkin’ about;

                             
Anyhoo, the edging has been out in all weathers for six – getting on eight – years and was giving out in quite a few places. Wot to do? Replace as required would be the answer and that I did.

Last time, I laid the edging out on a tarp and applied wood preserver, roll by roll, by brush. Thinking of my back made me devise an easier way. I got me a big cheap plastic storage box, added preserver and immersed the log rolls in the box for a few hours; turning occasionally as it  would seem wood floats...

Having soaked, I laid the rolls out on the tarp to dry while I dug out the old. Wot took the time was the result of inflation over the years resulting in the deflation of the new roll lengths by two pieces per roll.  Bummer.

All done now and my little nest of vipers is sitting in the shade thinking wot else she can get me doing other than just sitting, relaxing looking a lot like a battered and bruised, world weary garden gnome.

Quote;  Charles Dudley Warner.

“What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.”

And Then, Over The Edge...

Bet that got you all of a clicky eh? The edging wot I be talking of is wot’s called wood roll garden edging. This is knocked into the ground and stops the soil from the flower beds migrating into the gravel. Now this is really cleaver, it also works the other way and keeps the gravel out of the flower bed soil. How, like, awesome is that then? Below is it but it’s not mine as that green bit is grass not gravel.

It’s been in there for a while now and a couple of small sections were rotting out – as they do - so yesterday it was off to the store for a couple of new rolls. Same shop, same log roll, same price. Remember that; you’ll need it later.

The pain with this stuff is the painting of it with wood preserver but this time I let my brain do the work. The answer was to find a container big enough for the log rolls to fit in, fill it with the preserver and feed the rolls in and hope I get that Archimedes thingy right. That’ll work! And I did have a storage box. It’s been stored in the storage shed for quite some time as I didn’t have any success using it for the original storage purpose I purchased it for as my little nest of vipers just wouldn’t stop kicking about long enough for me to secure the lid properly...

Short story a tad longer, it all went well. Except... After an overnight soak, I laid out the new roll along the old length. Guess wot. Well, wot with inflation an’ all, the new roll is one roll piece short of  the old roll. Damn! I said but I also thought well done those log roll manufacturing fellows for keeping those important margins in place their end.

Quote;  Charles Dudley Warner.

“What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.”

And Then, A Flower...

While walking in a park yesterday, my little nest of vipers spotted a flower and excitedly asked me what it was. Asked me? Me, wot knows a daffodil and there ends the lesson.

I said I had no idea but I could take a photograph of it.
”Then what? Print it out and pin it in garden? When rain come, paper will go gooey. ” She replied with that ‘what a sad man’ look.
”I was thinking we could then go to a garden shop and see if we can find it.”
This, she grudgingly agreed, wasn’t too shabby an idea.

Thus I whipped out my phone and snapped a shot. Having taken a reasonably good close-up of my nose, I found the camera reverse thingy and snapped the flower.

Today we hit the shops and it quickly became apparent that looking at labels would require a regroup arming ourselves with food, a camping stove and sleeping bags. It was then that I spotted a gentleman wearing the apparel of the garden shop so I approached him, showed him the picture and enquired if he knew what it was.

”Calling upon my many years of experience I’d say that looks remarkably like a nose.” Came the confident reply.
”Ah, sorry, wrong photo. How about this then?”
”Right. That would be what us horticulturists are wont to call a flower.” He replied with great authority.
”Well, that clears up one mystery.” I responded.
”And that mystery would be?” He asked, warming to the game.
”Why, when I showed the photo to the guy in the bookshop, he suggested I should try a garden shop.”
”How true. Each to their own as they say, eh?”
“Anyhoo, thank you good hauty-whatsit person and I’ll pass on your invaluable information to my good lady and I’m sure she’ll be popping over to thank you personally and possibly knee you in the groin.”

After all the merry banter it all ended happily for her indoors with the horticulturist bent double in tears, the desired shrub located, purchased, a hole dug, shrub stuffed in and watered. That was a couple of hours ago so please don’t expect me to remember the name of the damn thing. Oh, wait! It’s a flower, right?

Quote;  Jerry Seinfeld.

"I have no plants in my house.  They won't live for me.  Some of them don't even wait to die, they commit suicide."

And Then, It’s Fall...

There was sad news via a comment from Ripper today so may I offer, on behalf of myself and all who gaze through the Foggy Mirror, our deepest condolences on your sad loss. Be cool my friend. The Web has made us all neighbours.

As fall is now well under way, I was dispatched to the garden today by my little nest of vipers, it being just above freezing, to perform a task that’s  really just an exercise in futility, that is, rake up leaves. There are many jobs that offer far more excitement but I have to admit that there’s a great sense of satisfaction upon completion as I gaze round the freshly raked garden. And at the leaves still lazily falling onto, and getting gently wafted into, the garden. If I was confident the neighbours actually enjoyed the job themselves, I’d get a blower.

It’s also interesting to see the numbers of bags filled ready to take to the tip. Man, where do all those leaves come from? Hang on. I think I know the answer that one...

Quote;  Jim Bishop.

“Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.”

And Then, A Damp Day...

Well, this morning my little nest of vipers ‘suggested’ we do some winter preparation in the garden. This, as is usual, entailed her pointing and me crawling, digging, cutting and collecting.

As we proceeded into the wild outdoors, I mentioned that there was a little light drizzle in the air which just got me a stony stare.

As the morning progressed the light drizzle turned to regular drizzle which, in turn, turned to light rain but what the hay, we were wet so we just kept going – she said. Wet? So wot? There’s little in this world a hot shower won’t kiss and make better. Holding the thought of a hot shower didn’t prevent this old song, featured here more than once before, if memory serves, running through my mind.

Oh come on ladies, it’s just some fun, okay? Makes me laugh every time I play it. Remember, it’s just a joke. However...

        

Regarding the shower and the earlier ‘discovery’ of lime scale removal using white vinegar, a little bit after a while ago I entered into communication with a recently graduated snowflake who said that while white vinegar was great from an environmental standpoint, it just wasn’t shifting the lime scale at all.

I made just the one query of them and instantly ascertained their problem and thus humbly suggested that they may get better results if they sprayed the white vinegar on the interior of the shower screens.

That was also typed just for fun.

Quote;  Ann Bancroft.

“The best way to get most husbands to do something is to suggest that perhaps they’re too old to do it.”

And Then He Be Covered...

And so it goes on. It now seems that after the Leave voters got the establishment all bent out o’ shape and Dave dodged off, the number two new candidate for leader seems to be continuing the winding process with the final say on who will be the new prima donna of the UK down to party members i.e. just people. This seems to have rattled the establishment and resulted in project fear being quickly replaced with project smear as they fight back with a vengeance. My advice to Mrs Leadsom? No walks in the woods girl, okay?

Well, so, anyhoo, I got that tablet toy and shot off to town a few days thereafter to get a cover or case for him. Why didn’t I look round for one the day I got the tablet? No idea; another little mystery of old age I guess. I tried all the tech superstores, not sure why I tried ‘em all as the only difference in ‘em all is the name over the door, supermarkets and smaller ‘independent’ stores.

The covers on offer where all priced round the twenty and up mark, weighed in a tad more than the tablet itself and none had the magic, magnetic sleep and wake activation dealy-bob that I was wanting.

I’m, like, what shall I do now? Next morning I fired up the laptop and plunged into the net of all stuff and five minutes later I’d located one with wot I wanted. Where did I find him? Seems it’s somewhere up a really big river in South America. It’s not a case to offer full, throw him in the overhead of a long-haul flight and believe he’ll be good sort o’ protection - but for me, sleep/wake and screen protection when he’s sitting on the coffee table, he do be good.

Surprisingly, for a few dollars more, I could get next day delivery from way over there. Don’t need that – regular works for me and that evening I received an e-mail letting me know my item was ready to dispatch. How, like, awesome is that?

Next morning I got me another e-mail from the river letting me know my package would be delivered in two days. This was followed right quick by one asking me to answer the front door. Sure enough, there was man with package.

So there you go; ordered of a morning, at a cost, including regular mailing, way below the high street offerings, none of which had the sleep and wake function, and it was delivered the very next morning. And they wonder why the high street’s dying?

If you’re the slightest bit interested and have a Galaxy Tab A, here he be.  Oh, you left after the first paragraph...

Quote;  Douglas Coupland.

“...most guys have about 73 calories of shopping energy, and once these calories are gone, they're gone for the day - if not the week - and can't be regenerated simply by having an Orange Julius at the Food Fair.”

And Then I Prune….

Her outdoors has many, many roses in the garden which, I'm assured by gardeners, is the best place to grow them.

Anyhoo, my little nest of vipers, upon looking through the oblong window yesterday and noticing a light drizzle floating down, a direction I'm assured by weather experts is the right direction, announced it would be a good day for us - and for 'us' read 'me', to prune the roses back for winter.

Now many of you may know that, if you follow the experts method, this is a complicated and time consuming process involving nodules and buds and runs something like this; locate the highest nodule/bud above the area where a branch occurs, then down to the lower branch with flower bearing nodules and buds on each stem, count back up three nodules, subtracting the first bud number that enters your head, locate that bud and nodule, take the sub branch, go one nodule up and cut a quarter inch above said bud.

Is that how I do it? You have to ask? I use my own tried and tested method, honed over the years, that has produced copious numbers of roses every year.

My method requires cutters, back saving long handled are good, and, for clearing up, gloves can be used unless your hands are scratch resistant. I call this rose pruning method hack 'em back to a two inch stump. Trust me, they'll be back next year thus requiring me, this time next year, to once again hack 'em back to a two inch stump.

Quote;  H. L. Mencken.

“An idealist is one who, on noticing that a rose smells better than a cabbage, concludes that it makes a better soup.”

And Then A Lucky Find….

Yesterday was dig in the garden day, or at least a small part thereof; a small part of the garden and a small part of the day. It proved to have an exciting up-side.

While excavating the hole for our Mexican Orange Blossom, which the instructions told me… no, really, plants come with instructions nowadays… had to be twice the depth and diameter of the root ball, I started finding, as you do, rubbish. This particular rubbish came in the shape of small, very dirty yellow metal discs.  In all I guess I dug up close to a hundred of these discs so I scrubbed one up with a wire brush the better to see what rubbish I had.

They looked like coins of some sort. Could they be old? I know that close by, when these houses were being built, they found the remains of a small Saxon settlement but these discs didn't have the word 'Saxon' anywhere on them and even if they had, how long ago did we stop using that money then? Even I don't remember using it so it was a long time ago and would most likely be worthless now anyway, right?

I concluded, looking at the foreign lookin' lettering on 'em, that they were probably some left over small pocket change from  a long ago holiday taken by a previous owner of this drum and upon returning home they'd just thrown 'em in the garden.

I disposed of these coins in the organic trash bin. What? Hay, come on! I'm kidding okay? It's a joke! Of course I didn't throw them in the organic bin. I put them in the correct trash bin as designated by the local council. You think I'm stupid?

However, earlier in the excavation, and this is what got me really excited, I found an extremely rusty, battered Matchbox toy tow truck. Now that's got to be worth a pound or two. I'm guessing it used to be one of those shown below but, sadly, it's nothing like that now. I'm wondering if I have to report this rusted-out old toy truck as treasure trove.

                              

Bringing up the back bit, did you catch the Daily Politics? They had that Caroline, mad as a sack o' cats, Lucas and Peter, surprisingly sensible, Lilley talking about hydraulic fracturing and the climate. This being the BBC, Mr Lilly's contribution was pretty much restricted to saying, 'Good morning' while being introduced.

Quote;  Ray Bradbury.

“Ours is a culture and a time immensely rich in trash as it is in treasures.”

And Then A Flower….

During a spell of pleasant weather yesterday my little nest of vipers ventured into the garden. Always a portent of work to come my way.

I wasn't to be disappointed in this respect as she came in and exclaimed she'd found room for one more plant. One more? Yeah, right.

"I want to get nice smell plant for by front door next to rose." She told me excitedly.
"Tell you what," I less than enthusiastically replied. "why not just leave the space empty and let wee…. wild flowers come and grow on their own? They will bring all types of flutter-by to brighten up the garden."

I left out the bits about the bugs attracting birds to eat 'em which in turn will bring cats to stalk the birds, closely followed by dogs who will chase the cats to no avail, other than wrecking the wild flowers, but will take the opportunity to perform their dogily bodily functions in the garden as most dogs are well trained not to perform these functions within a hundred meter radios of their own permanent place of residence.

She fixed me with those piercing, slanty eyes and said. "You stupid?" Actually, it was more a statement of fact than a question. "Wild flower bring bug that bring bird that bring…."
At this point I threw my hands up and towel in as I knew there would be no peace 'till I agreed with her and from past experience that, to quote John Sandford again, if she has a mind to she could nag the paint off a garage door.

"Are you paying for the plant?" I asked tentatively.
"I can do that." She said, somewhat cockily.
"Really?" I said, somewhat less cockily.
"You give me money; I pay at till. Wot so hard about that then?"

And so it came to pass we got a Mexican Orange Blossom which, during flowering time, a time we've cunningly managed to miss, promises to reward us with a wondrous scent or fragrance or smell. We'll see.

As a by-the-by, you know that favourite spot in the garden where you like to sit and do nothing? If there's no room in your boarder, get a big pot and plant half a dozen of these suckers. She done good picking these as the scent really is something else. May I humbly introduce Polianthes tuberose.

Quote;  Robert A. Heinlein.

“Butterflies are self propelled flowers.”

And Then A Gravel Top-up….

A few, or, as it transpired, phew, days ago my little nest of vipers was wandering in the garden when she mentioned the pea gravel had some low spots. I said she was quite right and it just needed a rake over.

I could see by her expression that, although she could see this wasn't too shabby an idea, it wasn't her idea and so to agree with me would show a measure of weakness.
"I be think we get some ton new ton and fill in." Said with a look that said far more.

Guess wot? This is wot we done did.

Take a step back with me for a moment. Yes, we like grass and we did indeed have a lawn. Is there anything as nice as the smell of new cut grass on a lazy summer afternoon? There's always a single prop plane high overhead as well isn't there? And is there honey still for tea? Not since I got the deep fat fryer..…..

Problem with that is you have to cut the grass to experience the smell so, a few years ago, we decided to dig up the turf, lay that weed supressing stuff and plant pea gravel on top. Ten tons of it. Now we sit and enjoy the shifting sunlight on the rustic gravel and soak up the smell of new cut grass as our neighbours toil in the afternoon glow. Yes, and the colours of the flowers and my weeds and the occasional colour of our neighbours language as their lawn mowers encounter stones an' such.

Anyhoo, upon delivery of the gravel, it transpired the delivery truck driver was somewhat of a Timidadian and the closest he would get to the front of the house was so far away his jib wouldn't even get the load onto the car hard-standing. {He'd already ruled out the back, where the original ten tons was dropped off exactly where we needed it, as he wouldn't be able to extend his stabilizing feet the newly required minimum length for a one ton lift.}

back at the front, my suggestion to pull further onto the grass verge, a very wide grass verge, was met with an hour long seminar on the Health and Safety regulations which, in a nutshell, state this is not possible in this day and age. Thus the one ton of pea gravel was left on the verge.

"I believe it's about ten runs with a wheelbarrow. If you have a wheelbarrow." said the cheerful, job done driver.
"I have a wheelbarrow but I call it a barrow as it's of the wheelless type." I whined.
This reminded me of something that goes along the lines of, 'If we had bacon we could have bacon and eggs. If we had eggs.'

What to do? From the position the big bag of gravel was deposited to where the gravel is actually required is a little over thirty meters so let's call it thirty two yards and all I have is a bucket. Three buckets actually. Buckets are a lot like colanders when it comes to having spares.

Much to my surprise, the task was completed in about two and a half hours. I was impressed. Well done her!! Pardon? A break you say? Of course I gave her a break. What sort of person do you take me for? Every tenth bucket I stood up and walked along side her holding a water bottle to her parched lips. I also spelled her for a full fifteen minutes when she collapsed. And let me tell you, those fifteen minutes were tough going as she couldn't drag herself out of the way so I had the disadvantage of having to step over her prone body where she'd fallen right across the path.

What? Oh, come on you lot!! I'm joking, okay? It's a joke for heavens sake! Of course she managed to crawl out of the way!

Quote;  Dave Barry.

“Your basic guy is into a straight-ahead, bottom-line kind of thought process that does not work nearly as well with the infinitely subtle complexities of human relationships as it does with calculating how much gravel is needed to cover a given driveway.”

And Then, Peace….

It being quite a nice day, her indoors announced she was away to do a little light gardening and that I should also be excited as my services would be required.

I've typed about weeds before, here and here so I wasn't, despite her predictions, all that excited.

With my aim to be to get it over with quite quickly, I stepped into the flower{?} bed she indicated to make a start.

"Be careful not to step on my best plant just behind you." she called out in alarm.
I stepped carefully, and wrongly, backwards the better to see what it was I mustn't tread on.
Looking down I enquired, "This one?"
"No, not that."
"Okay. This one?"
"No, not that."
"Okay. Which one then? I can't see anymore here." Was my puzzled response.
"The one you be standing on."
I lifted my foot to see a snapped and trampled ex growing thingy.
"Ah, that one! Doesn't look too damaged, right? Lucky really as it's broken off near the bottom so I'm pretty sure it'll just bounce right back." But her daggery look suggested otherwise.
"Does this mean you're going to sulk and not talk to me for the rest of the day?"
With that question eliciting no answer whatsoever, I quickly finished the weedy jobby, unsupervised, showered and enjoyed an unexpectedly  peaceful late afternoon way down my corner of the sofa.

This must, coupled with yesterdays events, be irrefutable proof that clouds do indeed have silver linings.

Evening update; the freeze has come to an end and normal services{?} have resumed.

Quote;  Mark Simpson.

“The artistic disposition is little more than an extreme form of sulking.”

And Then, Stone Me….

A little over a couple of weeks ago, we got the garden ready for winter. Remember? No? Not to worry. Anyhoo, the recent post relating to shopping triggered an explosion of neurons in my swede – okay a very low energy sort of ‘pop’.

Wot came after the small pop? The beginning of everything?Not quite, but with the shopping thingy an’ all the baskets and trollies involved I remembered that while doing the garden I found, with my left big toe, a large stone that looked like it’d been scratched on. I didn’t pay it any great attention and dumped it round by my multiple trash bins.

Today, Having had my mind popping moment which triggered a shopping trolley recollection, I went down behind the shed, where the multiple trash bins are hidden, to take another look at the chunk o’ rock.

The markings did look strangely familiar but I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I’m sure it’s of no consequence or import.

I did, however, take a photo of said stone before breaking it up with a heavy hammer and dumping the bits in a bag in a bin. {I may be going to gaol later in the week as it’s probably the wrong bin.}

Hay, it was just a stone with strange weathering marks, right? Whatever, it’s in bits in a bag in a bin now so we can all move on……

Okay, okay, It’s an old one but people who’ve been through the Mirror before will know that what it lacks in originality, it more than makes up for that lack with……. er, with….. I’ll get back to you on that one.

Quote;  Terry Pratchett.

“In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.”

             Robert Orben.

“In prehistoric times, mankind often had only two choices in crisis situations: fight or flee. In modern times, humor offers us a third alternative; fight, flee - or laugh.”

And Then We Have A Winner….

With the help of Anonymous I went on a voyage of adventure and discovery through the  InterWebs in search of the flower I featured yesterday and I’m delighted to announce we have a winner.

It’s a Polianthes Tuberosa which is exactly what I told her it was. Okay, okay; I made that last bit up.

I quote from this site;

Tuberoses will make you believe in magic! The nectar and scent are said to be magical to those who experience it. Put the bulbs along the edge of the garden, along the patio, or in containers where the late summer fragrance is sure to enchant. The foliage is sparse making them ideal for inter-planting among other perennials.

My little nest of vipers now wants a whole heck of a lot more of ‘em owing to the use of the word ‘magic’ in the above description. I, although a reluctant gardener, have to admit the scent this sucker gives off is jolly nice although I’m still waiting for the magic thingy to kick in.

Anonymous? We salute you - and the wonder of the Web. Now that’s close to magic to an old man.

Quote;  Winifred Watson.

“’Odd’, said Miss Pettigrew conversationally, 'the undermining effect of flowers on a woman's common sense’.”

And Then A Plant….

No, not you this time Mr Cummerbund, a proper plant. A plant her indoors got, as a young tuber, {A little clarification: The plant was a young tuber, not her indoors.} from a pound shop last year and this year has gone done that growing thingy wot plants do and she’s most taken with it. As, indeed, am I – but to a far, far lesser degree. It’s just a plant, right?
”Let’s go get more of this.” She said, standing proudly by the plant soaking up it’s extremely nice scent.
”That we can. What’s it called?” I asked, having not a clue myself and suspecting she didn’t have a clue either.
”A flower.”
”Right. Up to a point that’s spot on but I’m suspecting the store staff will need a little more information to go on. I’m pretty sure, ‘I want a flower’ won’t hack it. Tell you what; I’ll take his picture and we can go to one of they big garden centres, you know, the ones that sell birthday cards, funny lookin’ bits of wrought iron, toys, furniture, tacky ornaments and have  big cafes serving traditional British curries, and try, ‘I want a flower like this’. Depending on the Saturday Surliness quotient of the staff, we could throw in a few ‘pleases’ and thank-youses’ along the wayses.”

We went round three huge garden centres, all of which, yet again, gave me pause to reflect on the fact that there’s so much stuff I’d never realized I’ll never need, and no member of staff, old or young, had a clue what the flower may be.

This is the fellow if anyone has an idea wot it may be. The pink bit in the second picture is, I believe, a rose and it jumped into the frame just as I pressed the camera trigger.

                            

Another point worthy of mention is that my photographic skills are on a par with my oil painting skills. Namely rubbish.  You may have come to that conclusion without my prompting.

Quote;  Robert A. Heinlein.

“Butterflies are not insects,' Captain John Sterling said soberly. 'They are self-propelled flowers.”

And Then The Return….

She be back, which reminded me of this Far Side cartoon…..

I’d also like to let all you husbands out there know that when a long awaited program finally arrived on TV and I switched on in eager anticipation, I was a tad disappointed to discover it was a kids cartoon and NOT a husbands educational program as I expected. So, unless you enjoy cartoons, avoid ‘How To Train Your Dragon’.

Anyhoo, with the last missed bit of the projects and the cleaning-up completed she went on a tour of inspection and I waited for the usual woman thing which usually kicks off with, “When you did that bit, why didn’t you……”. Much to my amazement, all the projects were greeted with high praise! I know, it shook me as well.

However, come daylight and she took a walk round the garden things changed somewhat.

As I’ve been at pains to point out in the past I’m not a great gardener. To me a weed is just an underrated flower which is super easy to grow, requiring no effort from other hands, produce some lovely flowers and seed themselves copiously ready for next year. How cool can it get? This simple view isn’t, sadly, shared by her in the garden.

“Why you not take out weeds? They be big now.”
”Yes, they are big but consider this….”
”What ‘consider’ mean?”
”Think about this….”
”Why you not just say ‘think’ first time?”
”No idea. Think about this. when weeds first show, they’re really small, right?”
”Light.”
“Light? Oh, right. Well, that means for me to pull them up I have to do my back bending thing, or worse, that kneeling and back bending  thing; an attitude which takes seconds to assume but anything up to a week to straighten up from. As I considered this – thinked about this, I thunk, why the hell not let them grow to a size where I can just walk sedately round the garden and just pull the fellows out o’ the ground and do away with all that bending and crawling and rolling about stuff.”
”I think about it and get back to you.”
”Cool.”

I’m quietly confident I haven’t totally got away with this one. We’ll see in time.

Quote;  Tommy Cooper.

A woman tells her doctor, 'I've got a bad back.' The doctor says, 'It's old age.' The woman says, 'I want a second opinion.' The doctor says: 'Okay - you're ugly as well.'

And Then Autumn Beckons….

As summer draws to a close it seemed like as good a time as any to give the garden some attention. Or to put it another way, my little nest of vipers decided it was a good time for me to give the garden some attention.

After screaming, 'Attennnnn-tion!!' at the garden for a few minutes, and being completely ignored, it became depressingly obvious I'd need to indulge in some of that 'hands on' stuff. 

Armed with a small digging implement, herein after called a trowel, I decided to do some de-weeding and removing of dead or dying flowers.

How you do this de-weeding is a matter of personal choice with the accepted body positions being doubled over from the waist, kneeling and shuffling from weed excavation to weed excavation or, my age favoured position, lying down and rolling along in an undignified manner. Anyone who has ever consumed waaaaaay too much drink  and had the inexplicable urge to consume another half bottle will be familiar with this mode of personal transportation.

However, even this method of movement has its drawbacks because a roll to the next weed has a fifty – fifty chance of resulting in you lying on your back thus requiring a major and exhausting squirming, thrashing manoeuvre so's to be the right way up and thus face to face with a weed.

After completing a risk assessment and placing hazard cones at the end of the street to divert traffic into a one way system with no apparent way out, kitting out in the required safety apparel comprising natty high-viz waistcoat, safety goggles, steel toe-capped boots with ample ankle support, trowel proof elbow length gloves and hard hat with chinstrap and finally giving this rolley, squirmy, thrashy around and about  game my best shot for well over ten minutes, in fact a whole ten minutes and ten seconds, I decided to adopt old faithful tactics. 

These old tactics entail re-designating my weeds as wild flowers and as such should be left alone so as to encourage the wild life I nurture here. Assuming snails, slugs and weird looking things with many legs, some with wings, some with horns and some with pointy teeth can be classed as wild life. The dead and dying flowers? As before, leave 'em. They're going to spread seed, right? Thus alleviating the need to bend, kneel or roll around on the ground planting stuff next spring.

"That looks better, don't ya think?" I proudly enquired of her indoors.
"What you do then?" she quite reasonably questioned.
"I rolled that area of pea gravel, over there, with my body no less. Man, it was a mess!" I smiled proudly pointing at the pea gravel area. 

She looked at me with that look that suggests I be nuts.
She said, "You be nuts."

Exhausted, but with a tremendous sense of satisfaction, I proceeded indoors, showered and reconnected with the sofa. I'll move the traffic hazard cones sometime next week.

Quote;  Ralph Waldo Emerson.

"What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered."

And Then A Centre….

A garden centre is wot I’m talkin’ about.  This one was big. Big? It was huge and once again I was amazed to see so much stuff that I never knew I didn’t need.

Why wozz we there then?  Her indoors had decided she’d like a big tub of flowers at the side of the drive. My question,’Why?’ once again fell on deaf ears and so we found ourselves in that huge garden place.

Having selected a tub and an assortment of those coloured plant thingies, we checked out.

Just after the check-out was a selection of garden chairs and benches of varying sizes and prices with a huge sign above stating; Please Take A Seat.

We were struggling to get a nice wooden bench through the exit doors when a helpful member of the garden shops security detail – garden shop security? explained the shops meaning of the term Please Take A Seat. This was slightly at odds to our literal translation.

A case to be made?  With damages awarded for mental stress?  A bit like all those burger and fast food joints where you order by pointing at a picture.  You been there?  See that picture of a big fluffy bread bun covered in vitamin rich shiny seeds? See it? You see how it’s overflowing with succulent beef, melting chunks of cheese and fresh, crispy, shiny assorted salad?  See the fries?  A perfect crispy brown.  You ever taken the time to compare what you actually receive with the picture of what you expected?  Trades description anyone? Hay, if people can order a hot coffee, burn themselves with the hot coffee then sue the joint ‘coz there was nothing on the cup warning them that the coffee was, indeed, as ordered, hot, I reckon there’s money to be made here….

Which reminds me. A guy enters a fast food joint and orders two burgers and a hot dog.  The dame behind the counter goes to the fridge, removes two burger patties, peels off the paper and slaps one under each arm.
’Whoa!! What you doing girl?’ enquired the customer.
’Just thawing out the burgers.’ she replied.
’Oh, right. You know what? Cancel the hot dog.’

Quote;  J. A. Konrath.

“Sorry to hear about your Dad."
He shrugged. "He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him."
"Heart attack?"
"He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.”

And Then A Dig….

As Big Shiny put in a surprise showing today we, again, proceeded to the garden for that tidying up game.

“This bush. Cut him down and dig out loots?” my little nest of vipers ventured.
”Loots?  Roots.  Why?”  I enquired, worriedly.
”It be dead.” she said.
I couldn’t dispute this observation but, sensing work ahead as opposed to a sedentary garden potter, I attempted to head her idea off at the pass.
”And? So we – sorry – I exert myself cutting and digging and shaking and, more than likely, damaging my body and then what?  We – sorry – you put in something new which, in time, will also die and we’ll be back where we be this very daytime moment. Looking at a dead bush.”
”So you going to cut him down and dig out loots then.”
”Roots. Suppose so.” Damn!

And that’s how I spent my day, communing with nature. Nature in the form of worms, spiders, wood lice, green fly an’ some stuff I’ve no idea what it my have been. All I can say is they sure had a lot o’ legs.

On the plus side I did manage to damage my body so made an unscheduled blood sacrifice to mother earth. Her indoors assures me that the loss of a finger, only one finger, doesn’t detract from my suave, debonair demeanour.  Actually, she said she didn’t feel nothing.

What type of bush was the bush?  Other than dead I’ve no idea but, to impress you with my garden knowledge, I can categorically state it wasn’t a rose or a daffodil.

Quote;  Doug Larson.

“A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.”

And Then The Tree….

Remember the apple tree that had white cotton wool looking stuff all over it?  And gave but three apples?  After consulting an expert it seems the lack of fruit is all down to the very wet weather.  His thoughts on the white cotton wool looking stuff were most interesting.  He was pretty sure it was some sort of bug that produced some sort of white cotton wool looking stuff.

Halt; there I go again, talking to myself.  Never mind, I've started, so I may as well continue.

Looking at the tree I said to myself, "What do you think we should do?  Prune it?  Cut it right back?"
"Who're you talking to?" I replied to me.
"I was talking to you."  we continued.
"But there's only you here."
"That'd be me and my very best imaginary friend."
"Come on!  There's only you here so let's try the singular."  
"I can do that.  What shall we do then?  Cut it back?"
"There's that 'we' thingy again.  You got a mouse in your pocket or wot?"
"Sorry, I forgot.  How far am I going to cut him back?"
"To just above the root may work."
"Wait a minute.  I'm still talking to me!"
"Right, but not embarrassingly out loud.  I'm kind a' keeping it my secret."
"Not really. To keep it secret I need to stop moving my lips and pointing and waving at stuff."
"Bit late for that.  Look, the neighbours have all gone inside, locked their doors and drawn the curtains already."
"Oh.  Never mind.  Shall I start hacking at the tree now?"
"I may as well; I've nothing planned for the next few days have I?  And if I haven't got anything planned then I haven't either."
"Shall I get the saw and ladder?"
"Stay there and I'll get 'em."
"Not sure that'll work." 
"Probably not.  I'll get 'em then."
"Man, we work really well together don't I?"

At the end of the first day, my very best imaginary friend and I climbed wearily – okay, fell clumsily out o' the tree and staggered in to watch the news.  What to say?  Lucky ol' France eh?  75% top rate tax?  Cordon bleu!!  Oh, sorry, sacré bleu!!  That should get rid of those pesky wealthy folk who just loaf around cluttering the place up don't yah think?

Quote;  Plato.

"How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?"

And Then, A Tad More Gardening….

Sorry about that but I slipped out and, as I've mentioned before on similar occasions, with advancing years, I forgot to slip back in.

Which, for some strange reason, reminded me of the Emo Philips quote, "I was the kid next door's imaginary friend."

That gardening stuff has taken a serious turn since her indoors started watching, nightly on TV, that garden festival thingy wot's going on darn in Londonistan right now.

This has led to daily visits to various garden centers to buy stuff to plant and to, eventually, watch die. Tomorrow I'm going to plant small plastic bags of money, if there's any left that is. Doing that, at least I'll have something to harvest, come autumn, to help with heating bills.

Visits to garden centers isn't too high on my, "What shall we do today?" list although occasional visits are bearable. You know, once a year sort of thing, to see just how much stuff there is out there you never realized you didn't need for the garden.

The thing that throws me is the bewildering assortment of bags of compost on offer and the equally bewildering assortment of 'special offers' relating to said compost.

What to do. Anyone else do what I did? I spent an unreasonable amount of time going up and down the compost collection trying to figure the best deal, getting ever more dizzy, and eventually settled for the deal which offered the biggest collection of big numbers.

It wasn't 'till we were in the car heading for home I realized the big number deal I had settled for was the 'Buy Three for the Price of Six' deal. Should've been a politician.

Quote; Robert Brault.

"In every gardener there is a child who believes in The Seed Fairy."