Gardening as beyond Call of Duty

There is torture and then there is…gardening.  I know, I know, what I’m going to say will be anathema to so many of you. Saying you don't like gardening is like saying you don't like babies or kittens or cupcakes (ummm, on second thoughts, let's not go there - I want to keep a few readers). But honesty compels me to admit the unadmittable.  I bloody HATE gardening.  I am sitting here, right now, at my desk, with sweat pouring down my forehead, dripping steadily onto the keyboard. I have just plucked fifteen – count ‘em – thorns the size of arrows out of my arms, neck, nose and there are a few more that will require surgical removal with tweezers (when I can find the tweezers).

See, in my garden, nature hasn’t just flexed its muscles, it’s gone steroid-induced body builder on me. The brambles are the size of not so small children’s arms; the bindweed grows taller than the house; the ground elder (introduced by the Romans – so, yeah, what have the Romans done for us, huh???) marches inexorably over everything. It’s my own fault of course. After three years of spending every god-given spare hour out there, weeding and digging and cutting back, I gave up. Two years ago I said, ‘Sod it! Have it your own way.’ And the weeds went, yeah, thanks, we will.  And I justify it by thinking, hey, it’s a wildlife haven. And it is…there are slow worms and even a beautiful grass snake. There are butterflies and bugs and gawd knows what.

But every so often I just look at it and feel like I should make some kind of effort. Usually when I can no longer see the hill beyond because the undergrowth has come up from underneath and got on top. So I gird my loins and I gear up.  Forgot those nice images you see in the Sunday supps.  I don’t wear vintage florals and a big floppy straw hat; I don’t wander round with my hand-made trug and fiddle artfully with tasteful twine.  I go in looking like something from Call of Duty (probably Black Ops) with loppers, cutters, chainsaw, hacksaw, axe. Super-strength gauntlets (which are crap, by the way – there ARE no seriously effective wearable gloves on the market, not any more - sorry but there just aren't).  And then, ka-bam - I launch in with a surprise attack, in a brutal flurry of cutting and slashing. And keep going for as long as I can until I collapse with exhaustion or get a mean sonofabitch bramble in the eye.

Hmm, it’s not really gardening, is it? It’s war.  I’m not so much a Demeter as a Kali (to mix my mythologies).  For years I told myself I liked gardening.  I was lying. I realized that I like gardens. I like looking at gardens; I like sitting in them; I love lying on a nicely mowed lawn in them. I quite enjoy pottering around and dead-heading the roses. I don’t even mind flexing the secateurs and doing a bit of trimming (see, it’s that destructive thing again). But the actual gardening bit, all the rest of it – the digging and planting and tending and nurturing? Nah. That’s where I want someone else to take over.  It’s all just so…time-consuming.  And so thankless. It’s like cooking and cleaning (two of my other domestic no-nos) – you do it and yet no matter how well you do it, you have to do it all over again. It’s not progressive; you don’t get anywhere.  It’s just…tiring. And boring. There, I’ve said it.

I know it sounds ungrateful. I know a lot of people would love, nay adore, to have a great big garden like this one.  And that got me to thinking.  Maybe we should have some kind of garden adoption scheme. People who love gardening but don’t have gardens could tend and nurture the gardens of those who have but who don’t like the gardening act (and who don’t have the dosh to pay people to do the dirty work for them). Brilliant, huh?  So. What you reckon?  Anyone game?  

And, while we're here - anyone else wanna fess up to other things they hate that they're supposed to love?  :-)

Er...I'm cleaning

Last night I went to my friend Gill’s house for the evening.  I love her place. It’s so welcoming, so reassuringly normal, about as far from Bonkers as you can get.  It’s not just that it’s deliciously warm, it’s beautifully clean. Ordered. Uncluttered. But above all clean. Her kitchen gleams. No really, it glitters like a vampire’s skin. You can see the wood on her table. Open her fridge and you don’t recoil in disgust. There is no gloopy alien lifeforce colonising her cooker.

It was late when I got home so I didn’t really notice the house much, except for tripping over a pile of something someone had thoughtfully left on the stairs.  Why didn’t I see it? Because there's no light on the stairs.  Having hurled your entire body weight against the door to shoulder your way in (you wonder why I work out? I need the muscles), you are then plunged into darkness the moment you slam it shut and have to feel your way up two flights of stairs (incidentally passing the Loo of Doom and the Cellar of Spirits – renamed after Lorraine’s visit – and barging your way through the partying entities).  Once through the door into the kitchen, you move from pitch darkness to a forgiving penumbra (there are lights but half the bulbs don’t work).  Anyhow, shadows hide a multitude of sins.

But this morning, in the unforgiving glare of cool low winter sun? Oh hell.  We live in a pigsty.  And, given our homes reflect our minds, that what we see around us mirrors our inner world?  Oh dear.  L

So. I got cleaning. I know, I know.  I was shocked too.  But I hauled James off the Xbox,  armed him with a timely sponge and pointed him in the right direction (ie told him to spin round, pick a spot, any spot, and start scrubbing).  Now then, is there anything more beautiful than the sight of a teenage boy on his hands and knees, cleaning?  Okay, so you do have to put up with the whole underpants showing over the low-slung jean thing (does ANYONE get that?) but hey…

Incidentally, do your children clean?  My mother was adamant that all boys should know how to clean, cook and do the laundry.  Just as she believed girls should be able to fix cars and use a drill.  She said she’d never forgive herself for bringing up a man who couldn’t fend for himself; who expected women to do all the domestic work.

I’m following her lead.  James is a good cook; is handy with mop, duster, scrubbing brush and vacuum cleaner. I’ve taught him the fine art of reading clothing labels and he can sort of iron (because that’s all his teacher can do).

Anyhow. The cleaning was actually relatively pleasant because we’d been given a whole bunch of Greenscents products to try out.  Greenscents are a local company who make household products with absolutely no chemical nasties.

I didn’t think I’d get excited about cleaning products but really these are pretty fabulous. I love them mainly because they smell divine – I’m hard pressed to choose between the mint and the citrus scent for general cleaning.  Lavender always wins me over in the laundry department.  Even Adrian’s a convert.  He reckons the wood floor cleaner is ‘the business’.  ‘Tell ‘em I like the smell,’ he says. ‘And it does a really good job.’

Yes, I’m plugging these guys, I freely admit it.  There are several reasons.

1. I like local.  I like to support small businesses, particularly those that give a damn about the environment.

2. I don’t like harsh chemical cleaners. I don’t like what they could potentially do to my family’s health and I don’t like what they do to the environment.

3. They’re damn good products. They do the job and make your home smell nice.

They are more expensive than the stuff you get in Tesco or whatever but I think they’re worth the extra.  Will I continue using them when this lot is finished?  Yes, I think so.  £2.50 for washing up liquid is a bit steep but the laundry liquid is a total keeper.  At £4.75 it’s around the price of the conventional stuff and it washes a treat.  I don’t usually use fabric conditioner – it’s a hangover from when my son was small and had appalling skin problems (conditioner can exacerbate eczema etc). But I’m hooked now on all our stuff smelling so damn…fresh.  However, if essential oils cause irritation (and they can – natural isn’t always the answer!) there is also an unscented range.

Sheesh, all this domestic goddessery and nice housewifery business is a bit alarming.  Time to strip off the pinny and get back to my usual slatternly ways. 

If you want to find out more about greenscents, check out their website – www.greenscents.co.uk