I’ve decided to come clean.
I may have given the impression that my back garden is an abundant paradise of organic produce and floral bouquets. You might even have drawn the conclusion that I know something about horticulture. The sad fact is that I haven’t a bog’s notion what I’m doing. I just stick things into the ground and hope for the best.
I watch Gardener’s World religiously on Friday nights. (Teenage Son despairs and assures me that this is the surest sign that I am ‘officially ancient’.) When Monty Don lists his ‘Jobs For The Weekend’ I take note and, because I am a good girl, I do my homework. This half hour of instruction, followed by a couple of jobs, has worked out pretty well but it doesn’t cover all eventualities.
Yesterday was a bad day.
It’s a fungus, I’m told, and harmful to neither man nor beast but it sure ain’t pretty.
The back of the shed is a jungle of bindweed. I pulled a mile or two out of the hedge. It really does feel like unravelling some bad knitting and would be satisfying if there was an even remote hope of getting to the end of it.
I spent six whole hours on my knees in the front drive. Why? Because my front drive is carpeted in weeds. Dandelions, daisies, buttercups, chamomile, clover, dock leaves, ground elder, oxalis……..sounds romantic but looks neglected.
My knees are shredded and my right ankle is sunburned. Common sense and my neighbours dictate that I should buy some weed-killer and spray the lot but I just don’t want to. I have deliberately seeded some Verbena bonariensis which looks very weedy just now,
I’d hate to lose it. Also, and I hark back to my avoidance of lycra, I’d rather be weeding than spinning to nowhere in a gym.
Of all yesterday’s discouragements, worst of all was the Great Lupin Massacre. I have been trying with all my might to defeat the dreaded aphids but they overtook me by sheer force of numbers. My biggest and most lovely lupin was lunch for a plague of greenfly.
They literally sucked the life out of it. In a fit of pique I went in with my secateurs hoping to cut back to healthy growth. Appallingly reminiscent of attempts at cutting my children’s hair, I might have gone too far. Don’t laugh.
It will grow back, right?