Today was a day for attacking the quickthorn hedge at the bottom of my garden. From the garden side, I can trim it without difficulty. But, on the other side, there is a deep ditch, so when I stand in the ditch to trim the hedge, the hedge is approximately 18 miles high. So, I have tended to neglect the south side, so to speak. The result is that I have in my ditch, and therefore in my hedge, a riot of bramble and brier, rubus spp, that were clearly the inspiration for the barbed wire tank traps of World Wars I and II.But today, finally, I decided to work off my hatreds and frustrations (don't worry, the book WILL get finished) by sliding into the ditch in me boiler suit (OK, I know, funny place to have a ditch...) and wearing me hard hat to prevent serious scratching of the imperial bald pate, and then, armed with sickle and scythe, secateurs and saw, I attacked the hedge, the ivy, the bramble, the briery and anything else I didn't like the look of.
And you know what? I had a helper. My amazing young friend, Clare, rolled up her metaphorical sleeves and waded in too. Unstoppable, that girl. And here's the embarrassing bit: I gave up long before she did, muscles twitching and back all of an ache.
I am glad I am no longer young: you have to do SO much more.
No comments:
Post a Comment