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Where have all the flowers gone?

Words from a Bird.  Day 86.

As the weather was so lovely today, I decided that it would make sense to tackle the back garden which has taken to resembling the Congo over the last few weeks.  Percy and Reg have been disappearing for hours at a time - I had a weird suspicion that once I cut it all back, I would find a family of orang-utans living by the ornamental birdbath (if it survived the winter).

So gloves on, trowel in hand ( a Kubota would have been more job appropriate) I set to it, starting at the narrow end of the border, in case I peaked too soon.  Once I had hacked back the creepers and macheted the larger weeds, it wasn't too bad, so kneeling down I started digging over the soil.  And this is where it all went wrong.

The dogs, who had been watching me from a safe distance, all of a sudden appeared at each elbow, in a pincer movement.  There was nowhere to run.  I carried on digging, pulling at the weeds and putting them in a bucket, all the time nervously keeping an eye on the two of them in case they made a sudden move.

And then they did.

In one single manoeuvre, Reg went for the left hand glove, pulling at it like a thing possessed.  While I was distracted, Percy made a move on the trowel and ran off with it.  Having lost one glove to Reg, I threw the other one onto the border and started chasing the two of them round the garden, trying to get the trowel off Percy and the glove off Reg.  Percy is far more obedient, so I managed to get the trowel off him quite easily.  My glove was another matter.  By the time I had caught Reg, he had given the glove a good mauling.  It resembled road kill, and had more holes in it than daughter number 2's first attempt at scarf knitting. 

In the meantime, Percy had returned to the scene of the crime, and stolen the other glove.  Resigned to losing at least three nails, I went back to the border, and resumed weeding, plunging my gloveless hands into a particularly nasty looking patch.

Oh brilliant.  Nettles.  Cue copious swear words muttered under my breath (the next door neighbour was on the other side of the fence, and I don't think he would have been too impressed by my rich vernacular).

Several hours later, my hands feel like they are plugged into the National Grid, and I have sausage fingers.  We're out for dinner tonight, and I am praying that we're not offered Chinese food.

Sausage fingers and chopsticks?

I'll be coming home hungry...


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