Gardening Shame.

The day started off the same as any other. I woke up. Had some brekkie. Watched a bit of tele. Hold your awe and applause, it gets better. So I’m sitting on the couch when Dad comes in and asks if I fancy doing some tidying in the garden. Seems like an average everyday run of the mill request yes? Wait, you haven’t seen the garden. Right let’s begin again shall we.

My Mum moved to this house, which in all honesty, when comparing it to the house that Jack built is pretty nice. It’s a fixer upper let’s call it, though I think a better description would be a let’s just rip it out and start againer. Well between mum and a couple of other close friends and relatives who were more than subjected to emotional blackmail work got underway and the house was looking good. Inside. That was four months ago, and the outside still hadn’t been touched. The grass had been left to wildly grow for what must have been a year before Mum was even here. It stood just above my waist, quite impressive against my five ft two inch frame, considering Cardiff is nowhere near Jungle territory. It was a hideous thing to behold. The fear I felt when having to wade through the tough weedy terrain just to hang out the washing. Machete in hand I would hack my way through creating a path, hang the washing and run before I woke the snoozing family of lion’s, or accidently tread on a dormant rattlesnake. It’s safe to say that yes the garden needed sorting!

Rakes and shovels in hand, we faced our Everest. And attacked. Our first Father/Daughter activity. Would we make it out alive? I could hear the drums of war singing through the wind, as we walked out the back! (When this is all you’re doing you have to being in some drama). Okay, well maybe it was the kid next door banging on drums in his garden, but you see where I’m going. I stepped in the grass and as I looked down there it was. The test of my resolve was looking straight at me, from my leg. It’s fangs dripping with venom, and I swear it whispered my name. The biggest spider I had ever seen! You may think this a slight over reaction, but let’s just say I was finished with the grass.

I turned my attention to a nice little patch out the front of the house. I didn’t want to completely give up, or show my Dad how much of a pussy I actually was. A nice little patch with my name on it, about five feet by three feet of weeds. They all needed to come out. I could handle that. Dig and rip. Simple! Or so I thought! I began tackling a big thorny thing; it was like a bush only ya know, not as bushy. (I already told you I’m not Charlie DImmock). After two gruelling hours of wrestling with the multi limbed green octopus, I was cut worse than a self harmer after an emotional beat down. Covered in mud and had managed to dig halfway to China! By the time someone came to check my work, I had cleared two large bins of soil and my Mum’s rose bush, which she later informed me she wanted to keep.

I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of weeding in hindsight. The point is to dig across and rip out the weeds. Whereas I just enjoyed digging down, well you gotta get the roots haven’t you? In what has to be the most embarrassing realisation of my own physical fitness I was outdone by my Father. Yeah he’s a man and should be stronger than me, and whatever, and I think I could have taken it. Except this is my 62 year old Dad. My Dad who’s 3 years off a bus pass. So as I stood in his proverbial shadow of weeding awesomeness, he tore apart the patch. My little patch in less than 15 minutes. It was like watching the Tasmanian Devil sweep through, well, obviously Tasmania. He pretty much chewed up my youth and spat it out, while skipping back into the house practically dragging my limp lifeless body with him. Patronisingly he made me a drink and continued to give me the “well done” speech, consoling me that if I’d dug across rather than down, I would have done a “bang up job”. Sitting while he told me more about landscaping, weeding, ploughing, everything to do with gardening. As the information flooded my mind, I tried to concentrate on what he was saying but was lost in the aura that was his green fingered omniscience. It was while he was talking about flowers and maintenance that I really understood; I am no way green fingered, I can never be green fingered. I have no patience, no commitment, and no way of giving that much physical effort. It’s bad I admit. I know this. But I do like to dig. I love to dig. So to date, the little patch is used for me to dig. It’s the most amazing, therapeutic way to relieve life’s little stresses. Bash out your anger, or just aimlessly do something when you’re bored. It is the cheapest therapy I have ever had! And so far the most successful!