When I say that sometimes life is simply featureless monotony I’m not saying it in a bad way, just that the bread and butter of things is unremarkable for long stretches. Productive, pleasant, comfortable, satisfying – but unmemorable, so suddenly it is Sunday again and I can’t remember the days in between.
That is why it is so thrilling when life takes shapely turns, so that a loose end or a problem swivels neatly into the solution for something else entirely, you can almost feel it slide home with a satisfying *click* instead of just hanging about all floppy and useless. Putting prunings into a vase where they sprout fresh green leaves weeks before you could collect them outside, using the leftover egg whites to make tuiles and having unexpected guests that day, finding that mountains of grass clippings are the very thing needed to insulate your sullen, damp compost into fruity, rotting life. Trimmed leftover selvedges become neat ties for bundles of scraps, measured and logged.
The garden has been neglected all winter, weeds have sprouted enthusiastically with all the rain and I have been too busy to see to it, beyond picking flowers for the house. The truckloads of pedigreed Black Friesian manure I spread so generously last year were full of grass seeds (which says dark things about pedigree digestion), and my little glowing blue muscari, creamy freesias and miniature daffodils are struggling through thickets of coarse, bullying weeds. The lavender I propagated is sitting around still in pots, the Thompson’s Grape is twenty feet into the trees, Brighton Beach looks like an unkempt lawn, and my favorite shocking pink geranium has gone from being cossetted to spoilt brat with delusions of entitlement.
Old Tom is keen to reciprocate for my dog-walking: Tom is a gardener. I asked him if he would take on my disgrace, and he is coming over to survey and discuss. Perfect.