My garden is starting to flower; green on the bushes and shrubs, yellow along the pathway and around the pond. I haven’t checked yet to see whether the goldfish survived the winter, and the occasional early-morning visit by the black-and-white cat from across the way.
It still feels strange, knowing I own and am responsible for this mass of vegetation. It’s also slightly intimidating to realize that I will, at some point, have to mow the lawn. It’s that, or rent out the backyard as a safari park set for Born Free: the English edition — and if the latter ever comes to pass, I shall eat a bowler hat.
I’d love to be able to take a week off work, and really concentrate on the garden. Put in some flowers that aren’t yellow or purple, tackle the lavender which has staged a coup in the front garden. Trim back the neighbour’s rosebushes which are blushing prettily pink with flowers, and reaching out to snatch up my car in their green thorny fingers. Maybe even plant a fig tree – not that I’d ever eat the fruit, but it’d be a way of staking my claim, making the garden mine.
Alas, I do not have green fingers. I have only to look at a plant, and it shrivels to dust and dry twigs. Unless, of course, the plant in question is considered a weed. I am very good with weeds, possibly because they are so hard to kill.
Sometimes, I wonder if my black thumb isn’t a sort of superpower; perhaps I ought to invest in a mask and a cape, and get people to call me Weed-Girl, or Veg-Assassin, or the Antiflower Child. With a single glance, I could rid the world of well-loved greenery run amok, and fight for the freedom of the simple downtrodden dandelion…
The neighbours over the road have tulips and well-tended lawns. It looks very pretty and spring-like. I think nature is just pulling one last fake-out, trying to convince us all that winter is done. A quick look at weather predictions proves me right: next week, they’re predicting sleet and light snow.
I’ll put off the work that needs to be done. Just for a week. Just till it’s warm.
