You know how it goes. It’s a cold but sunny Sunday
afternoon, and you start getting the guilt.
Your other (most would say better) half is slaving away
outside, lopping off dead branches, scooping up fallen leaves, scraping away
alluvial mud while you – yes you – are lounging idly in the armchair.
There’s nothing for it but to join the fray. Out at the
front is a grumpy looking shrub that was decorative in its infancy, but is now
excluding 30 per cent of the natural light from the sitting room window. And it
needs your immediate attention.
Some lubricant, yesterday |
Wield the garden shears. The blades rattle suspiciously, rather
than making that “ker-snick” noise that all good shears are supposed to make. Apply
lashings of 3-in-1, attempt to tighten. Fail. Try again with WD-40. Fail.
Wonder idly why lubricants have names like internet banking passwords rather
than something meaningful like “Un-Sticko”.
Shears are past redemption. Grab shiny new long-handled
pruner. Attack shrub with gusto. And the imagination starts to wander.
The knotty branches of shrubbus subwindowensis are the things
you love to hate. Misplaced apostrophes. Snip. The word “iconic” as over-used
by the BBC. Snip. The phrase “Methinks” in comments on websites. Snip. “It’s”
when it should be “Its”. Snip. Vice versa. Snip
“Your” when it should be “You’re”. Snip. “There” when it
should be “Their”, or “They’re”. Snip. Emails without subjects. Snip. And worse, and worse –
unimaginably worse.
Those garden recycling bags in full |
“Hugh!” The dream is shattered as Mrs D lugs a seventh
recycling bag of gardening debris round from the back of the house. “You’re not
killing that shrub, are you?”
This isn’t a shrub, darling. This is a viper’s nest of
grammatical, orthographical and syntactical errors. And now it’s correction time.
Mrs D is not convinced. But where there’s life – or at least
a few dispirited leaves clinging to the denuded stems – there’s hope. Nothing
that a light dusting of fish, blood and bone meal won’t cure.
All is forgiven. The twigs are gathered up into an eighth
and ninth recycling bag (Bath and North East Somerset Council made a killing
out of us this week at £1.50 a pop), and as we relax in our lighter, airier
sitting room, there’s just one fly in the ointment.
“Hugh! That window needs
cleaning.” Ah well – onwards and upwards.