So I love the daffodils and their little cheery, cheeky yellow faces. When you see them you know it’s spring. Their only downside a reminder of the increased need to self buff your bits.
Their appearance also a prompt to clean up the rattan furniture. Though covered, an eagle shit on it early winter. It looks like someone has slung a poorly cooked omelette out there. The bird has obviously been genetically modified by the MOD for reasons I suspect involve hovering over trumps head to answer the question we all want to know, just why does Trump’s hair look like that? The obvious answer being he is building a wall between his forehead and hair which he is making his hairdresser pay for.
Not all rattan furniture got covered in our garden. Some random items are slung about. It’s like winter suddenly descended upon us and we had to run into the house immediately leaving everything as if it was for our very survival. Funny I don’t remember the conversation that said shall we fuck this shit off and go in and not return until spring. I’m dreading lifting the lid up on the BBQ for fear of a long abandoned sausage. Maybe that’s what the eagle was after!
A leisurely walk around the garden on the first sunny day of the year, in a bit too premature three quarter length trousers, is an opportunity to assess what made it through winter.
It is a time to reflect as you look at what’s dead, and comprehend just how much of your life you lost last year, wandering around with healthy looking just brought plants in pots, moving them around in different positions, leaving them there for a bit, then digging your holes satisfied the place meets the plant’s needs and you ascetic desires, only to find they’re now dead. And not the sort of plant death that teases the odd shoot below, the sort of plant death where it’s just brown and crispy like a twiglet and all that’s left is the tag telling you how you should have cared for it and reminding you how much you paid for it!
The Christmas tree is standing browned in the corner. It looks like someone set fire to it. And the spiteful git still drops sharp but brown needles as I battle to get it in the green bin.
I want to hoover the artificial grass with the Dyson and search for an extension lead. I start in the summer house where all our shoes are until we get our new wardrobes. I find a black pair of slip ons that I have been looking for since Winston chewed the shit out of my alternative pair of black slip ons. One of them is bent under the lawn mower and as I pull it out the toe area is distinctly sticking upwards and some paper has got wet and stuck to it and it’s topped off with dry grass as the lawnmower gives up its contents.
Eventually, I find the extension lead. It appears some tosser had just thrown it into the summer house unravelled. Now, there’s a 50 percent chance that tosser was me (Tony would argue the percentage allocation) but nonetheless I’m annoyed. And just how is it that someone throwing it in there and then neither of us going into the summer house until I just opened the door, that it wrapped itself around every God Damn thing in there, including he thong of every flip flop and don’t even get me started on buckles or laces.
After sitting down to untangle the cable, which caused excitement for the dog resulting in unpredictable face licking, before he gets pre-occupied with licking his own bits, I started hoovering. I actually hoovered for about 20 minutes before deciding this was a project that could span the week. Instead I’d give everything a soak.
An initial watering of the garden, totally unnecessary this early on, confirms the hose is screwed. It’s one of those scrunchy ones, and clearly, while we were keeping warm or eating our Christmas dinner, someone sabotaged it by stabbing it repeatedly with a fork. Hence the random spraying along the fucking thing so the decking floods and there’s a pathetic dribble of water at the head, basically like someone spitting onto the garden. That needs replacing then along with all the solar lights that promised a lot and now give nothing!
Sod it, time for Prosecco! Oh yer and to deny any involvement in why the Dyson is full of leaves and no longer works. Looking visibly confused and saying, ‘no idea’ when questioned about the blockage in a 2 octave higher than normal voice should suffice but doesn’t. So I sip my beverage and pull out bamboo leaves and twigs from the hoover on the grass getting another random face lick from the dog.