This week, for the first time in ages, I put on the work clothes I used to wear for paid gardening. Immediately I was reminded of those afternoons when we used to tend the back gardens of older persons, pensioners. We would arrive, work hard for an hour, stop for a coffee break with biscuits pressed on my husband, work hard for another hour or more, be paid, re-book and leave with our little green car sometimes loaded high with springy gardening rubbish to be taken to the local tip. Arriving home I would record the day's takings and start the evening meal.
Nowadays I don't have to travel to work. I step out of the back door into our garden. Sometimes, although I shouldn't, I don't change my jeans or wear my gardening trainers. I snip at and prune stray and untidy twigs in that precise way which formerly irritated me as I heard older persons drawing my husband's attention to some plant he had overlooked. I take longer over tasks and at intervals look down the perspective lines of borders. noticing small improvements. I spot weeds early. I rake over our raised beds until the soil is the 'fine tilth' recommended by gardening books, and crumble clods with my hands.
Tidying up is simple. The car stays in the drive, a fistful of cuttings land in the brown bin and I come in to my own cup of tea.
No comments:
Post a Comment