It was one of those days when I went from the garden to the shed about a hundred times and remembered why I was there about twice.  The sun was shining and it was time to set about the Spring gardening tasks.  It went like this: I’ll cut the grass.  I’ll need the lawnmower.  The lawnmower is in the shed.  Why did I come into the shed?  I’ve no idea.  Oh well, there’s a spade over there, I’ll take that back out with me.  Mm, why have I got this spade?  Was I going to dig that old bush up?  I think I ought to mow the lawns first.  I’ll need the lawnmower.  The lawnmower is in the shed etc etc etc…  If I’m honest, I don’t need to mow it now as I have worn most of it away tramping backwards and forwards to the shed.

Somehow I did manage to get a handful of jobs done, but I have no idea whether they were the jobs I set out to do.  I refilled the water-feature, rewired it and stacked up the pebbles around it with no greater injury than a split fingernail.  I turned it on.  The water tinkled, the lights twinkled and, amazingly, nothing blew up in the house: there was no bang, there was no smoke.  I re-grouted the slabs on the patio successfully and without incident, and I patched up the broken concrete on the drive – although it being by then in full sun, the patches have already started to crack like the ‘Do Not Microwave’ dish I used to heat up the yesterday’s dinner.  Oh, and somehow I split my fingernail.

It is odd to look out on our little ocean of green, fenced off from the Somme-like scenery that borders us and the muck and racket makes the toil of preserving our own quiet little corner even more onerous to me (the rabid non-gardener) than ever.  It is hard to maintain enthusiasm for the upkeep of our mini-oasis when a yellow-hatted man in a machine that dwarfs our house is staring down whilst picking his nose and scoop by scoop turning our green and pleasant view into mulch.  The house building has now reached our very fence and the footings are dug in preparation for building the properties that will eventually be occupied by our new neighbours.  Yesterday the digger hit the concrete floor of the old farm buildings that our houses are built on and nearly turned itself over.  When I think back to the battles I have had with the bloody thing armed just with a spade, it somehow made me feel better to know that it proved a match for the giant JCB.  It has taken me four decades to dig up the segment that lies under my garden lump by lump, and I now quite enjoy the fact that almost every single chunk of it has been dumped exactly where the digger is now toiling.  Take that progress!

I love the garden, whilst my wife loves to garden.  She is happy to toil away her days clipping, pruning, digging and weeding whilst I am happy to sit in it and drink gin.  Perhaps by next summer we will have returned to the quiet, peaceful existence we have known for the last four decades – even if the trees in the distance will be hidden by walls and roofs – and I almost certainly will have fully retired from work, so I will be able to spend more of my time out there – even if I’ve no idea why…