Graham’s home once more. He took one look out of the back window and announced that we are going to have to get a gardener/clearance man in to hack the ‘undergrowth’ down to the earth and take all the detritus away.
“You can’t possibly do it,” he said when I offered to have a go. ”And I’m not going to be here through the summer so we’ll just have to pay someone else to fix it.”
Come back ‘orriley men, all is forgiven.
Actually, clearing it isn’t too much of a problem. It’s what to do with the exposed soil that’ll be left over that needs careful thought and planning. For once, grass is not much of an option–the garden is shaded with overhanging trees and there’s no way we’re going to clear them away. We don’t cut down trees.
So, before next Friday, when he disappears to run the bars for a big wedding, I need to back him into a corner and hold him down long enough to work out the options and commit to a plan.
Then, two or three weeks after that, he’ll be off to that bloody holiday camp for the rest of the season. Again.
He’s been allocated a caravan once more for the duration, in a much better location than the last one, so Dolly and I shall be able to spend a couple of shortish breaks back in Somerset. Goodness knows what Dolly will think of it. I promised her we’d done with the darned place when we left last time. Come to that, I promised myself much the same.
Life’s a strange, disconnected drama when you come down to it. Thoreau had one or two one-liners that almost fit the bill. But not quite.
I shall just have to come up with a suitable statement for myself. All snappy and pithy in a full of pith way.
