Enjoyable?

There’s a certain kind of masochist who considers that gardening is a fun pursuit. Well this blogger considers that pastime was conceived somewhere in the lower circles of hell.

Bearing in mind that it was a hot bank holiday weekend for a change, gardening was not my idea of fun.

Let me explain.

I had to mow a lawn which hadn’t been shown the attendance of a cutting implement for a while. Consequentially mowing with a “Less bovver with a hover” appliance, that was sadly lacking in size and power, brought me out in a hate rage of any garden machinery of an orange colour. I honestly believe it would have been easier to have used a scythe and a vacuum cleaner.

Then there was the strimmer for getting into those parts that the orange machinery fails to do. Bloody thing seemed to eat plastic cord like there was no tomorrow.

The hedge needed cutting. The easy bit is slashing away with the hedge trimmer. The backbreaking part is picking up the detritus that you’ve just hacked off.

Then of course you’ve now accumulated a mountain of green rubbish. And this means a trip to the municipal waste facility (The tip). Queue hell.

Not withstanding that, there is the garden furniture to repair. So off to that well known rip off merchant with the web address starting with DIY. You only want one bracket, but oh no, you have to buy a packet of three.

Now your’e all thinking well done Mr FE you’ve now got an outstanding garden. You’re wrong. It’s the errant son’s garden (Errant cos he lives up north), that I’ve slaved over.

It all started a few months ago when he phoned and invited us up for the bank holiday. (I should have refused outright.) I was expecting to be pampered, wined and dined at expensive restaurants, and generally made to feel special. I should have known better. My daughters put Machiavelli into the third division.

In actual fact it was an interesting experience and brought me back in time to my youth. I knew nothing about gardening or DIY. So my son is not to blame in the slightest. (I’ll outline his faults in a future post).

Probably best to have astroturf and practice celibacy.

*I expect a comment Christopher*

OMG it’s nearly summer

The worst time of the year. Years and years ago Mrs FE conned me into buying a house with a huge garden. Mrs FE is a keen gardener.

She of course does the creative bits such as growing little plants in the greenhouse and carefully planting them out. Wonderful for her.

Of course the owner of this blog, me, has to carry out the more manly tasks.

I get the pleasure of cutting a 10 foot high, 300 foot long hedge on one side of the garden, and a fifty foot one on the other side. I spend a lot of my time as well, mowing the sodding lawn which with our climate of wet and dry, emulates the pampas of Argentina. Then there’s the Apple tree. This year there is an abundance of blossom which will mean a surfeit of apples. That means we will be infested with wasps, and those apples that are not eaten by said spawn of the devil will fall onto the verdantly mown grass. These are then hurled out of the mower causing your host to simulate an Irish jig to avoid serious ankle injuries.

Then there’s the painting to do on the outside of Chez FE. herself casually drops into the conversation that the barge boards are not looking too good and need a rub down and repaint. My immediate repost is, OK, up the ladder you go. That doesn’t work. just gets me banished to the living room sofa for a week.

Then there are the fences. Where there are no hedges there are fences. Now Mrs FE in her wisdom (Peace be upon her), has cultivated climbing plants to cover the panels. She will of course complain that the panels are in dire need of re-treatment. If I could get away with it I would spray plants and panels alike. However that would end up with me sleeping in the garden shed and not the living room sofa.

That’s the minor trauma dispensed with. This year is different.

The worst is. Wait for it. I HAVE TO MAKE A SPEECH.

My eldest daughter is getting married, and as father of the bride, I have to mouth platitudes, congratulate them, thank the attendees, and generally make a fool of myself. This fills me with a stark dread akin to jumping out of an aircraft and descending on a parachute. I’ve done that and believe you me, I’d rather do it without a parachute than make a Father of the Bride speech.

On the seventh of July I shall be standing up to explain why my daughter is so lucky to marry her sweetheart. Trouble is I have speechwriter block.

CAN ANYONE HELP ME? Any ideas?