Hobbies: knitting, reading, and weeding

What I haven’t yet mentioned – owing to pressing urgency of work and, um, more interesting blogging – is what greeted me on return from my scant four days away.

BLOODY ENORMOUS WEEDS.

I have mentioned my sudden, surprising (to me) and uncharacteristic (I would have thought) fascination with The Garden. This mostly has to do with amazement that I haven’t actually killed it yet. As someone who has moved through life leaving a trail of shrivelled houseplants in her wake – you’d think I would have simply stopped trying, but it’s like picking at a scab*; or perhaps I just got addicted to the horrified cries of “You killed a GERANIUM**?! But how?” – I’m constantly expecting to see my black fingers*** take effect. So far, they haven’t; as a result, watching the grass grow is very nearly riveting entertainment for me. Suspense-filled, certainly.

But it also has to do with The Weeds.

When we moved in, there was nothing but weeds, and dead grass. The first task, obviously, was to get rid of those weeds. Huge, prickly, stinging things they were, the size of your average rosebush and twice as vicious. The roots had of course spread out into a dense and intricate lacework a foot beneath the surface. This made weeding a lot of fun. No, really. It was a tough, GI Jane sort of job. I spent happy afternoons muttering “Die, bastard” as I broke yet another garden fork. It was a matter of pride to see how quickly I could fill the wheelbarrow, and to find the longest, fattest, tricksiest root to show off at the end of the day.

But the thing is, there really were a LOT of weeds. Beloved did a fine job of digging up two beds (after I had made the area accessible by removing the big nasty bramble bushes, of course), and he was wonderfully thorough. There are no more weeds growing there. At all.

In the rest of the garden, though… well, try as I might, I don’t seem to be as thorough. And I have come to suspect that all my efforts are acting as a bracing tonic to the weeds, bucking them up nicely, and aerating the soil for their growing pleasure.

So it’s war. A very personal war. Of necessity, a war of attrition; strategy and patience are key.

Every time I step into the garden, I note their positions and plan my next attack. I scan the terrain, looking for telltale green spots where no green should be. I bide my time till I think they have reached optimum size – not too big to slip out easily, not too small to grasp all relevant parts – and then I pounce. I like to think I’m getting somewhere.

But they defy me. Four miserable days, and the damn things are like triffids. Damn rain.

I’m so looking forward to the weekend.
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* Another disgusting habit I can’t seem to break. Like America’s Next Top Model.
** I mean, of course, a pelargonium. I have graduated to the ranks of those who know the difference. But I doubt I can expect the same of you lot...
*** As opposed to green, geddit?