It is with great reserve and a mountain of empirical investigation that I can conclude the following:
What mystifies me most is how this crippling exertion doesn’t kill more of the old people so obsessed by it. It’s geriatric central around where I live, according to UpMyStreet (my postcode omitted because I’d rather not be stalked, thanks) and I’m surprised they’re not dropping into their azaleas as I stroll past them on the street. I am covered in dirt, bruised, bleeding and itchy. It’s worse than a night out in Glasgow, for Gawd’s sake!
The icing on the particularly unpleasant cake is the minimal level of satisfaction. Having transformed our non-tropical rainforest into the neatness expected in suburbia, there’s no reward beyond not saying “I must do something with the garden” five times a day. Had I more disposable income, and if I actually cared enough, I would have called in a ‘gardening service’ as so many of the monied folks around here seem to. Though I doubt I’d feel comfortable living in such souless perfection, to a girl who grew up in a tiny flat, gardens are only for running amok in when the chance presents itself. I think the solution is to pave over the garden in whatever place we eventually buy, and get genetically modified plants that don’t grow or require any attention, ever.
To add insult to injury, it’s just another stick in the burning fire of my youth that I ought to be misspending. Or maybe I’m still sour from the lady in Boots recommending me a night cream. Youthful skin, people. It’s not that bad yet, surely?