Wednesday, 24 May 2017

The Grumpy Gardener

I bloody hate gardening. Mowing the lawn, weeding, planting, growing. It’s all one giant pain in the bollocks as far as I’m concerned. I’m not particularly lazy, and I’m quite happy to do the odd thing around the house, but of all the jobs associated with owning a house, gardening sucks the most arse.  It’s also the job that my Mother In-Law likes to remind me about most.

You make the garden all nice and tidy and 2 weeks later it’s back looking like a scene from Jurassic Park with added cat shit. Why does stuff have to grow, and why does the neighbour’s cat have to shit in the exact same spot each time? Always on the direct route to the shed from the house, and always trodden through the kitchen so The Boss goes ballistic. (Speaking of cat shit, can anyone tell me why it always smells so cheesy)?

It’s not just the gardening work itself; it’s all of the different variations of equipment that you need in order to get it looking half decent. And it’s this equipment that fills my untidy shed. A shed I could have otherwise used as a man cave, a place of solace and some rest bite from the kids. After unloading the 3 ½ tonnes of rakes, brooms, shears, spades, forks, watering cans and trowels you get the extension lead out, plug it in, trail the lead out of the kitchen window, plug in the mower, push the mower down the other end of the garden to begin, and then realise you forgot to switch the fucking plug on at the wall in the kitchen!

After an unnecessary stroll back to the house, you begin mowing. Now this part of the process isn’t too bad really. You stroll up and down trying to keep the lines nice and tidy and begin to imagine future barbeques and family gatherings on the patio. You almost raise a smile. Then, just as your mind drifts off to a happy place, you’re hit in the face by a shard of gravel the kids have thrown on to the lawn. The mower having sliced it in half, creating one of those Neanderthal spear heads that they find on an archaeological dig on the Discovery Channel.

Lawn mowed and face shredded it’s time for the dreaded shears. You need these as apparently no matter how close to the fence you mow, you’re always left with a line of tufty grass. Grass that appears to mock you and take the piss. Now I don’t know if you have ever had the misfortune of using a pair of shears, but they always seem to design them so that when used your knuckles on each hand bash together until your bones break through your skin.  After 45 minutes of trimming and pruning those tufts of grass look no different, but you think “that’ll do” and the weeding, feeding, sweeping and planting can wait until next time.


After spending another half an hour reloading the untidy shed, winding up the extension lead and emptying the grass cuttings, you look out at your creation and mutter the words “see you in two weeks you bastard”. 

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