OK, so I jumped the gun and pretended that spring had sprung and that now was the time to start planting things in the garden. To be honest I did whack in some broad bean seeds a few weeks ago, as per instructions, but they, acceptably, have yet to surface so no worries on that score. However, yesterday I planted a double row of peas and a double row of mange tout. Perfect so far.
Knowing full well that I had to attempt to give them some sort of cover, if only to prevent Chea from using the finely raked soil as a litter tray, I struggled against the increasing wind to erect and peg down a super-duper, holey, plastic, protection tunnel thingy.
Richard, of course, was his usual non-helpful self, standing on the path issuing forth stupid suggestions, until I issued forth a few of my own, resulting in him legging it back to the house muttering something about he was only trying to help. Yes, TRYING being the operative word. What that man knows about gardening and plastic tunnel erection could be printed on a postage stamp and there would still be room to spare.
So, being the cocky cow that I am, I struggled alone, navigating the spiky blueberry bushes that tried to take out my left eye, and narrowly avoiding a fat green frog that had misread its satnav and was heading away from the pond rather than towards it, where its mates were already into a major mating session with a few willing female frogs.
The gathering wind obliged by whipping up the plastic from the manured soil and wrapping it around my head, causing me to break off temporarily to remove a piece of dung from my left eye. Forty-five minutes later, and with most of the sodding plastic pegged down, Richard reappeared with a mug of tea, his eyes running over my handiwork and saying nothing. He does learn – eventually.
So, with the plastic beautifully pegged down, and with the tea drunk, I rinsed my grubby little hands under the flow from the rain barrel and trotted off back to the house, imagining my little peas, snug and warm, and protected from cat pooh, lying in the lovely earth, impatient to sprout.
Around two in the morning the wind increased to hurricane proportions, slamming shut the bedroom window and rattling the chimney pots. My tunnel was never going to stand up to that. It crossed my mind to dash off out into the garden like Gabriel Oak in Far From The Madding Crowd, where he fought the elements to tie down and save the hay ricks, but the moment passed as I knew my tunnel would already be in the apple tree, hanging there like an empty parachute, whose owner had long vacated. Brilliant. Where, I ask you, is Gabriel Oak when you need him?
So, with a mug of tea, a roll of string and a pair of scissors, I sulked up the garden this morning to retrieve the tunnel from the tree, and lo and behold …it wasn’t in the tree, but exactly where I’d erected it. Hah! The wind hadn’t torn it to shreds. So there you go Richard. Keep your opinions on erections to yourself!
Besides, I learnt from the best …my father. He was a master erector of all things. I knew of nothing that toppled after dad had his way with it. Not a ‘screw man’ by any means, oh no, if a nut and bolt could be involved then a nut and bolt was involved. I think he had a standing order with Screwfix! I remember, on one occasion, building an outside run for an aviary and dad trotted round with a collection of various sized nuts and bolts and gave me clear and precise instructions as to where to put them. Years later I had to take a sledge-hammer to demolish that erection.
Perhaps I should bear that it mind for future erections? #wink
Take care my lovelies x