I have always regarded gardening as a pastime designed to waste a working man’s leisure time, but, at the same time, a necessary evil. Further to that, it has never worried me as long as someone else is doing it. The limit of my gardening expertise is mowing the lawn and doing the edges, something which I steadfastly refuse to allow the good lady to go anywhere near.
However, large amounts of time without calls for school do require that I do my bit around the house and I play the role of the part-time house husband pretty damn well. I clean, cook, vaccuum, do the trash, fix the cat litter, feed the pets and generally try to ease the load on my full-time employed wife as much as possible. *gets down off soap box*
Lately I’ve “branched out” into gardening. Yes, dear reader, the old boy’s going soft. My exploits so far have consisted of pruning all the roses (we have a shipload of them) transplanting some plants that are crowding each other up too much, watering, weeding extensive patches of decorative gravel through which the weeds have insidiously grown despite the use of weed matting, and erecting a decorative arbour over which the good lady plans to grow a passionfruit vine.
Passionate gardeners say that this activity is theraputic. I fail to see it. It’s hard work, on the knees, the back and the hands. It does have its rewards, I’ll admit, but the sneaking suspicion that it will all return to the way it was the moment my back is turned leads me to still be deeply ambivalent about the green pursuit.