Going Green

I did the unthinkable this weekend. On Saturday morning / early afternoon, I put on thick gloves made for outside work. Took my gardening fork in my right hand and went into what little piece of garden I have. It is just a patch along the wall of the property that stretches the entire length of the property. But the stretch is about 30 cm wide. It is however the principal of the matter that counts here. I detest gardening. As a little kid I remember my Granny hiding money in between the weeds, and that is the only way she got us to pull out the weeds. Then as I grew up, whenever we had to do gardening in my mom’s house I detested it. Outside in the hot sun, getting your hands dirty, dodging spiders and all manner of things with more than four legs while you are baking away in the sun at a nice 180° until blood red and blistered. I do not tan. As a very young kid I used to get a golden Mediterranean tan and since I hit puberty I just go tomato red and then blister and peel. Very Sexy. My mom, as much as what I love her, was also a bit of Nazi. You can have a cool drink when you are done, so shut up and pull out the weeds. By that stage that you get your cool drink you are so damn screwed that the thought of anything touching your body, outside or the now tender baked inside, is enough to make anyone confess that they fly on brooms, eat children’s flesh and swallow the devils apparent cold member.

A Dramatic re-enactmen

So back to present day, my little piece of non-brick-paved garden looks like something from the jungles of Tarzan. As a matter of fact I think used the phrase “It is like playing Jumanji”. Saturday was a nice day. Not too hot, not pissing down with rain. So I start at the end closest to the gate. It is only when I pulled out the length of two vibe Crete slabs that I realized that I am out of black bags. So now what do I do? I am not good at this gardening thing and already I had to dodge some or other black bug. Which by the way it can be vey happy that it was black. If it wasn’t it would now be in the afterlife, but I figured it is a fellow Goth so lets be nice and just shoo it away.  And Snails, Jesus those things are disgusting. Both the ones with the house on the back and the divorced ones who left with nothing. That slime trail they leave everywhere is enough to make me wanna puke. It’s like cupping a very old prozzy that clearly doesn’t need lube. I mean really there was a reason I turned gay. No offense girls, it’s not you it’s me….or something like that. Ok so then I figure, Paul and I really don’t create that much rubble in a week. Our bin is never full. If it is halfway then we had a rough week. So off I am to fetch the bin. Walk towards the back yard, trip and fall over the Cauldron. For some reason after the previous time we used the Cauldron for magick we have just not put it in it’s place yet. And I, inevitably, will trip over it, every time. So after I nearly brake my neck twice (going to the bin and coming back with it, past the same Cauldron) I now have the bin at the ready to dispose of my weeds. I have to say, that it was a bit of a sad moment pulling out the weeds, cuz even though it completely over grew all of the actual plants, it was at least green and I like a green garden. Paul eventually comes out and asks if he can help. Wrong choice of words. On the wall of the house we have three beddings. Beautiful plants in it that you cannot see anymore, because of the beautiful green that now grows there. And stinging nettle, crap I have not seen so much stinging nettle since I was a little kid. So Paul pulls out all the weeds in the beddings and leaves the nettle for me cuz I have the magick garden gloves. We carried on like this until the bin was full. Now there is about two meters of garden patch left to do. At the end of it all I am standing against the bin and I am deep in thought and Paul asks me “Penny for your thoughts” to which I normally reply that I hope he has change. But I told him that when I lived in Goodwood, I had garden services included in the rent. And great as it was, I only now realize that it robbed me of the time to experience my garden.

It would then seem that me putting on the garden gloves might become a regular thing. Which leads me to one conclusion…….I must be getting old.

Mwah!!