The Front Garden

The dogs have destroyed the back garden. We knew it would happen - they love chasing each other and wrestling each other (lots of noise and bared teeth, much to the amusement of the neighbours), and the end result is soil and stones everywhere.

Not, of course, to mention the pollution of our once great vegetable beds.

We were resigned to this from the day that Darth Lila came home. Zach Attack! was just the icing on the dog poo cake. Not a cake I particularly wish to eat, as it happens. We knew our days of veg growing were numbered.

Until I pruned the roses.

Once upon a time, roses festooned our garage. At some uncertain point in time, they got the arse and buggered off. In their place were thistles. Thistles with a mission to overtake our village. To achieve that, they joined forces with the ivy already growing over the wall and roof and set about their aim.

It had got to the point that just walking down our path was a dice with danger. If the wind was blowing, you ran the risk of getting whacked in the face by a rogue offshoot of the power seeking thistles.

Once blinded, you then were free to trip over the paving stones that were slowly shifting position. Our conifer was jealous of the expansion plans of the thistles and was staging its own little rebellion by reaching for the stars and for the North Sea. The roots were forcing our path up and out, and many is the time that I have been labrador propelled down the path and ended up on my arse outside the garage because I got poked in the eye by a thistle and then tripped over the damn paving stone.

(I'd like to say that is how I broke my toe for the fifth time. But it would be a steaming pile of hotspur)

So after my latest mishap I decided to prune the thistles. I'd been putting it off for a while, partly through idleitis, partly through shit weather and partly because the Baron had hidden the good tools from me.

But the sun was shining and I was feeling like a little gardening.

I like pruning. It feeds the destructive little monster that resides within me that has little outlet in real life. Readers, I got my revenge on those thistles.

In fact, it would be fair to say that I decimated the buggers. They are gone. Not just the thistles that were taking over the garage, but the thistles that had staked a claim under the conifer, the thistles under the huge tree that I am allergic to but have no idea what it is, and the thistles that were slowly strangling the compost bin.

All gone.

The problem was that once that was all cleared, the garden, or overgrown helllhole as we affectionately call it, looked very lopsided. The trees looked out of place. It just wasn't right.

A vision of what could be floated before my eyes. An endless row of beans and peas taking the place of the ivy. Pots of carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, sweetcorn, courgettes and spinach where human feet could not currently tread. Hanging baskets of strawberries instead of thistles. Herbs instead of dead leaves.

And the monster inside called for more.

So I began a more extensive deforestation programme. The conifer tree was the first victim, and was surprisingly easy to deal with, given that it was over eight feet tall and I am just over five feet two.

One spade + one pair of shears + one determined Mouse = one ex tree

The second tree was a little more complicated. The above equation was not going to work. But that led to a new problem.

The rules of our house are simple. They have been refined throughout our nearly twelve years together (seven of which have been under a shared roof):

The Baron must turn his socks out the right way before putting them in the washing basket.
The Baron must empty his pockets before putting dirty clothes in the washing basket.
The Baron must put the seat down.
The Baron must be dropped off at the hospital if a cat needs emergency vet treatment.
Mouse cannot play the guitar if the Baron is in the house.
Mouse may not light candles unless there is a power cut or the cats are held hostage in a separate locked room.
Mouse must never ever ever use power tools without adult supervision.

Reinforcement was clearly needed in order for the house rules to be obeyed.

The Baron was very shocked to get out of bed and find most of the front garden neatly piled in one corner. He was even more shocked to be presented with a bacon sandwich, the electric saw and a request to remove an entire tree.

Bless him, he ate up and did as he was told.

One Baron armed with power tools + one Mouse in a supervisory role = another ex tree

I won't bore you with the details of actually clearing the remains of our newly discovered garden. It involved a fuck off huge bonfire, a disagreement with the neighbours visitors over the aforementioned bonfire, some fun with the hosepipe putting out the aforementioned bonfire, multiple trips to the recycling centre, a lost pair of gloves and a lot of sneezing.

The garden was a blank canvas. The vision was a step closer to reality. We would grow vegetables again, oh yes, we would.

The final step was the hardest.

Digging is bloody knackering. The Baron was very dedicated and really put his back into it. On the other hand, I would dig for fifteen minutes, bugger off and enjoy a cold beer and then come back for another fifteen minutes. Naturally the pace slowed as the alcohol consumption increased. I am a lush, after all, and I have just discovered a new lager from Barbados that slid down a treat.

Hey, it WAS a hot day.

But there was a corner that neither of us wanted to touch.

Just over two years ago, we placed my soul cat in a small hole in the front garden. We had planned to leave that corner alone and let him rest in peace. Something the little bastard never extended to me in life.

But the root ball of another plant had grown in to that spot and needed to be removed. With heavy hearts, we set to it.

For the record, two years is not enough time to fully decompose one small fluffy and evil cat.

Additionally, for the record, the Baron is petrified of remains of any sort. Which meant he dug with his eyes shut and ran away when he felt a crunch, leaving me to see that he had put the spade through my special cats skull, which still, after two years had the one tooth in it that was due to be cleaned before he was killed.

It's bad enough that I had to put him in that hole, but to have to remove bits of him again and put him in the bin (nowhere else safe to put him) was too much. I don't think there is alcohol enough in the world to make that better.

However, it had to be done and I am glad that it was me that did it. It was not a job I could have in all good conscience asked someone else to do. He was my cat.

But the work is all finished. The front garden is now awaiting the Great Planting Event of 2007, scheduled to take place in a few weeks when my seedlings are a little hardier.

As Bob would say. Job done. For now.