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I Hate Gardening

In typical French fashion my garden is not attached to the house.  It is along the road, up a lane and down a path and no matter how many times I shut the gate it is always open when I go there.

This garden is about the size of Central Court at Wimbledon and is cultivated by the Triffids.  The Triffids, for those too young to have missed them, scared the hell out of me when I was a child listening to the play on the radio.  And now they are back, haunting me and growing a foot every day, menacing what should be a haven for bees and butterflies.

I have tried many ways of taming this wilderness, the most successful being when I asked my neighbour if she would like to grow vegetables on it.  Marie-Jo tackled the garden with a vengeance and soon there were rows of vegetables and fruit bushes.  Then disaster struck.  Her selfish daughter in law ran off with another man so my neighbour went to look after her son and grandchildren.  Within days the Triffids had taken over again.

Now my son and grandson, with some token help from me, have cleared about half the area.  I have bought plastic and laid it over the ground and my son has left me instructions. 

The areas not covered by plastic but dug over must be hoed and raked on a very regular basis.  Plant lavender bushes.  So 4 days after their departure I reluctantly trailed up to the garden.  I couldn't hoe, I had to dig the weeds out first.  There is nothing like a day's rain for encouraging the Triffids to reproduce, and reproduce they have. 

So I have spent 2 hours in the sweltering heat, digging, hoeing and raking.  I am covered with a rash and I still hate gardening.  But I have put the lock that I use for my bike on the gate.  I dare anyone to
open it now.

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