OPINION

Picture me, if you will, sitting at my computer on a Sunday afternoon slowly tapping away at the keyboard with the two fingers that help keep bread on the table.

I’m typing the very
words you are reading right now and I’m typing them very slowly.

But there is method to the madness.

That’s because this (Sunday) morning just gone Mrs P woke with a proverbial bee in her bonnet about the state of her garden.

Before I knew it we were standing in front of it, the pending likelihood of hard labour hanging over me.

I should quickly point out here Mrs P has been on the injured list now for going on two months and is unavailable for selection. Accordingly, I have been filling her spot in most duties around the house.

It would be fair to say one or two (okay, perhaps three or four) have been, er, overlooked.

Personally, I thought everything in front of me looked okay. I mean if you have what’s politely described as a “cottage” garden, you have to accept a bit of this and a bit of that all jumbled up, don’t you?

Indeed, if simply letting nature do its thing and allowing plants to grow unfettered is the measure of a rambling cottage garden then ours must be a huge success. Mustn’t it?

The look on Mrs P’s face suggests not.

Actually, the look suggests I am a man and therefore obviously a dork when it comes to anything to do with her garden.

In fairness, she’s probably right. I’m in the Keep It Simple Camp. I’m not about ripping everything out, even though Mrs P thinks I am, but I do have a certain amount of admiration for the bloke in my old town down on the West Coast who simply ripped out his garden – lawn and all, covered the whole area in concrete and painted it green.

Then each weekend while the rest of us mowed lawns etc, he went fishing.

Anyway, back to the bee in the bonnet of She Of The Cottage Look. The garden is a disgrace and action needs to be taken. To me that could only mean one thing: weeding.

Now let me be very clear here – I detest weeding.

For starters, arthritis in the knees, fingers, hips, nose and ears makes it difficult for me to get down to business (honestly) and then there’s the identification issue. I struggle identifying what is a weed and what isn’t. I mean that pretty-looking thing with the colourful flower at the end of it could be a weed in disguise. Couldn’t it?

There’s also the fact weeding is a totally pointless activity. You pull it out today, it will be back tomorrow. Best just leave it and maybe hope something that looks nicer will grow over it.

Or you could just put a garden gnome over it.

I relay all those explanations in earnest to Mrs P but she’s having none of it. I think she mentioned “delaying tactics” or something. I didn’t quite hear; I was preparing to fire my big guns.

“Of course, in permaculture we just let the garden find its own natural balance,” I say with an air of confidence, hoping I sound like I know what I’m talking about and not someone who read, or should that be misread, an article on the subject in a magazine at the doctor’s surgery last week.

“Something that looks like a simple weed is most likely of great benefit to the ecosystem and should be left to keep contributing,” I continue solemnly. “It’s all to do with the harmony of nature.”

I thought I’d laid it on just enough. Not too thick, not too thin, but just right. With enough big words to make her think I knew what I was talking about.

Wrong.

“You are definitely a trier,” she laughed, handing me some sort of weeding tool and a bucket for the unlucky vegetation about to be ripped from the earth, its flower bed tenancy terminated. Oh the humanity …

Anyway, after taking an age to get down in position and moaning about every body part that hurt, I succumbed to the inevitable and started pulling out green stuff. I had thought if I pulled out something that was very obviously not a weed she might get somewhat peeved and order me from the field. Unfortunately, she was over my shoulder most of the time, pointing with the walking stick that has been her regular companion these last few months.

Eventually I was allowed some time off for good behaviour and trudged inside for a cuppa.

It was then a cunning plan came to mind. It was, by now, mid-afternoon. If I could delay my return to the dreaded weeding task it might be too dark to see and I might not have to go back at all. Thank goodness for daylight saving.

“Oh no,” I exclaimed with accompanying theatrics which included whacking an open palm to my forehead, “I’ve forgotten to write my column for the paper and it’s nearly deadline!!!”

You’ll see I’ve added three exclamation marks there to try and convey a sense of importance and urgency.

It worked. Mrs P immediately ordered me to the office where I sat down and began typing.

V-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y.

So slowly, in fact, by the time I started typing the last two sentences – sort of about here – it was quite dim outside.

Way too dim to see any weeds in a rambling cottage garden.