My kids complain about me being a garden-aholic. They reckon I’m completely addicted to the thrill of extreme gardening, but I think they’re exaggerating. Sure, I like to spend a few hours in the garden from time to time, but it’s just a little hobby. It started with just a few whiffs of Seasol, before I got onto the harder stuff like Dynamic Lifter, but I hardly ever inhale, okay? Anyway,I think it’s character building for my kids to wait until 9.00 pm for any hope of dinner. Just because I’ve occasionally been caught weeding by torchlight doesn’t mean I have a problem. And when I tell them I’m going outside to do a quick job or two and then stagger inside three hours later with my hair full of twigs, a caterpillar hanging off my chin and my bra full of dirt … Well, come on, doesn’t that happen to everyone?
It happened to me the other day, when I was attacking another annoying privet tree that’s turned feral. I’d sawed its head off and was digging around the roots to try and lever it out by pushing it to and fro, then was pulling like mad on the stubborn remains of it. One or two roots were clinging in desperation, so I pulled even harder, half-wondering if my vertebrae might start to jingle around like piano keys. Then – SNAP! – something gave way (fortunately not my spine) and I I fell over backwards clutching a great clump of roots, copping a shower of dirt all over my face and down my top.
That’s a common sort of gardening event around here. So is swinging an axe at clumps of agapanthus, sawing through ivy trunks as thick as your forearm, thinking a possum is surely going to jump on your head when you accidentally disturb its nest, and pledging you will never, ever, plant jasmine in any garden. Ever. The jasmine in this garden had been allowed to run amok for years, and had teamed up with its best mate, ivy, to take over just about everything. There were thick ropes of dreadlocked jasmine coiling through the trees like snakes when I moved in here. I’m sure the ivy and jasmine were planning global dominance by teaming up together, but I have foiled their fiendish plot.
These plant dictators aren’t giving up without a fight, though. The battle of Me versus Jasmine has been raging for months and I may have to bring in heavy artillery (weed killer) soon. The casualty list so far includes a garden fork, two pairs of secateurs and several pairs of gardening gloves. My own injuries have been cuts, bruises, blisters and bites, but they are mere flesh wounds. I shall never surrender, I tell you! I shall fight them on the beaches, in the fields and in the streets … well, in the side garden where the ginger plants and old plum trees are, anyway.
I’ve had to ease off with some of the extreme gardening activities, though. I was up a ladder a couple of months ago dragging armfuls of leaves off the top of the shed and, as I dragged another lot towards me, I thought I saw a large huntsman spider heading my way. For an arachnophobe like me, what possible course of action was there? Well, jumping off the ladder, of course. I was in mid-air before I realised it wasn’t even a spider. “Maggie,” I said to myself. “Firstly, this wasn’t a brilliant idea, was it?” It’s amazing how much time you have for stating the obvious when you’re about to be splattered on paving stones. Fortunately, I remembered to relax and hit the ground with loose knees so I wouldn’t snap any bones during the landing procedure. All those years of falling off horses as a teenager were good for something, at least.
Shortly after the Spider-that-Wasn’t episode was the Green Bin incident. I had climbed into the bin to stomp down all the weeds and clippings so I could fit more in. Climbing in and jumping up and down is by far the best bin-cramming technique – all real gardeners know that. However, on this occasion the bin was a little too full and I was a little too vigorous, and as the bin toppled over sideways with me perched on top of it, my potential last words were not terribly profound. They were, “Maggie, you’re an idiot.” Clunk. Well, again I survived, and the spectacular bruise on the bottom faded after just a few weeks.
Anyway, that’s enough about gardening for now. It’s not really an addiction, you know, It’s just a little interest – like road rage, or soaking unfranked stamps off letters, or shouting at contestants on reality TV shows – and I don’t even know why I’m sitting here babbling on about it. It’s time I went outside and did just a few little jobs. I need to stuff some more jasmine clippings into the bin, pull out that little clump of agapanthus in the front garden, move the pelargonium to the spot behind the lavender in the cottage garden and prowl around the veggie patch and gloat. Oh, I also need to excavate some more of the dirt that’s covering the paving in the back corner and decide what to do about the rampant oxalis …
Sigh. Alright then, maybe they’re right. My name is Maggie, and I am a garden-aholic …
