1 of 141

Write now Article Tools

I want to tell you about my garden. That is a sentence I thought I would never write it is certainly not one I would recommend for chatting-up the ladies. But nevertheless I will battle on. It is not just about my garden, it is also about me of course and my gardening talent or complete lack of it.

We moved into semi-detached house over a decade ago and the whole of it needed a lot of work, so the garden was naturally the last thing on the list. Unfortunately for me this seemed to be the philosophy of the last occupants - I swear that there were new life forms breeding amongst the forests of grass. The privet encircling all around the forest of Eden had monkeys swinging from the branches, I mean really big mean looking monkeys.

Even better news the deforestation project was mine alone. I had a missus that well, is not used to getting her hands dirty, let's put it that way shall we. So it was left to me, some rusty cutters and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves that I am sure was supposed to be for the washing-up.

Some people say that there is nothing better than working on a garden. They are wrong. People mutter on about how they can "spend forever pottering around" how they "lose track of time in the garden", no, this is not so. If this is true where was the help when I needed it? Where were the green fingered jollies? Not in my garden that is for sure. Anyway there was no use in moaning I said to myself, hoping that no-one would see me in the gloves, I would just have to get stuck in - after all surely something that pensioners do with ease can't be that hard can it?

I remember the blisters. Both hands, red raw, I looked like I had been in a war or something. But did I get any sympathy of my loved one - no of course I didn't. Apparently my war wounds were only construed as complaining. But surely it was all worth it now the hard work was over? Now I would be able to maintain it and do some planting, put some life into the garden - create. Well I looked out of the window and what did I see? Brown grass, uneven privet and some weeds that had grown over night. Oh the beauty of the brown soggy grass, that looked as if it had been mowed over twenty times - it had. No it was not worth it.
"It will soon get its colour" said an annoying happy relative one day, "you just have to keep on watering it". OK, that sounds like another heap of fun, count me in, only I didn't own a hose or a watering can.

So here was me watering the grass (still brown) with the help of a milk

• 1
• 2
• 3
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about True gardening stories: How it all went terribly wrong (humor)?
We want to hear your view. Write now!