Gardening goddess

Happy Friday! So yes I am back again! You will be pleased to know that I got out of bed, showered and washed my egg yolk and coffee stained dressing gown. It took some severe motivation and approx 80 fags but alas I got there (pause for applause).

Thank you very much for the lovely messages about my blog, I’m so glad to hear that other couples could relate and it isn’t just me here plotting my other half’s death, phew.

Is anyone else getting a little bit crazy up in here? With this lockdown? I mean I’m not complaining as I know others have it so much worse but so far, my socks have walked themselves to the basket, I have left my legs about a month to grow (and my armpits for that matter), developed a very spotty 8 chins, and dyed my hair blonde-but unexpectedly ginger. I am spiralling down on the old aesthetics front if I do say so myself.

However there are some upsides. I have perfected the poached egg (Olivia May tell you different), perfected the handful of songs I know on guitar (again Olivia May tell you different). Infact I’ll whip the guitar out at about 9am to serenade her but she will be sitting there, knackered in her dressing gown crying “oh god Beth no more put it away do something else ANYTHING else”. So inevitably I had to do something different and less annoying and preferably something far away from irritating Olivia. So I decided I’d become a dabhand in’t garden (getting the lingo now). Yes, today I strutted out into the front garden in my three stripe trackies and hair lobbed into a bun. Just call me the hip brummy version of Alan Titchmarsh.

Fag in hand, broom in the other I took one lonnnnnng drag looking over at the jungle, weed ridden garden. Shit. Jacket had settled into her deck chair on her front garden directly opposite. She waved slightly, sporting a smug little smile – she obviously didn’t think I had the skills to fix the garden. Cheeky fucker even played music, I believe “sexy and I know it” came on every time I squatted down to pull a weed out.

And she was absolutely correct. 3 hours later and only just Psyched myself up to put my fag down and actually start. At this point the cat had actually come to ridicule me too, smacking at my ankles, a bit like the bloke with the spatula on ‘run fat boy run’.

The first weed I pulled out, of course, was an absolutely massive Fuck off, stinger. Hand throbbing, crying a little, I resisted the urge to roll another rag in defeat and I pushed on through. I’ve told you before I’m not physically fit in anyway, but this was further exemplified today as my hands developed actual friction burns and blisters from using the tools and equipment. BLISTERS, from hard damn work.

Slunk over the shovel, my hand draped over my forehead, I was SAVED by Olivia who was tapping the window asking me if I wanted a coffee and lunch break. Is the pope catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? OF COURSE, you bet I lobbed that shovel down, wiped my forehead (to give the impression I had been working hard) and slipped into the house. How long can one drag out a coffee and bowl of pasta? I had 3 helpings of pasta to drag out the inevitable return to work.

Safe to say one whole HOT day later, I live to tell the tale and the garden does look somewhat better! Not great, not quite Chinese John standard, but it will do.

I have to mention that Olivia is about 3 ft shorter than me and her garden tools are of a similar dwarf like size. So here I am, picture this, looking like fucking Quasimodo the hunchback of leeds with a child’s size broom sweeping the front garden. It must have been right entertaining, I’m glad I made Jackets day. My back was burning by the end of the day. I limped back in, back swole, hand throbbing from the stingers trying to roll a fag. Liv actually said to me “if I don’t marry you I’ll kill myself”. Nice to know that pulling a fucking weed or too would warrant a proposal, never mind all the other lovely things I do ey?

My blistery fingers can’t type anymore, I’m off to recover and hopefully never look at a sylvanian family sized broom again.

Stay groovey gardening spinsters out there.