As per usual, the garden is in a bit of a state. In part this is down to my lassitude; in part due to spending half of each week over at The Small Object of Desire's gaff. And then in January we decided to set to it:
- We had a go at installing the fence panels I bought last March. I might have a go at supergluing the bits together again.
- The front garden is piled knee-high with prunings of lilac, hazel, dogwood and roses. I may yet make a bonfire.
- Many of last year's cheeky lengeths of brambles have been grubbed out and chopped back...
Which is where I came a cropper. A particularly egregious bramble shoot ran from the bramble patch on the railway embankment, shot up the air, wrapped itself round a branch of the conifer about twelve feet up and then descended into my garden, rooting itself along the length of the back border. So I decided: I'm having you, you bastard.
And that's what I was doing when I fell out of the tree.
Luckily, no bones broken though quite considerable pain and a full Robert Newton Long John limp right up to the beginning of last week.
In the meantime, the garden's been full of snowdrops and crocus and a cluster of double hellebores has been doing the business since Christmas. Not one daffodil yet, dammit. The big pot that should be chock full of Salome and February Gold has been waterlogged all winter after an ants' nest clogged up the drainage holes (silly buggers). I have hopes of the venerable clump of King Alfreds under the big rose bush but I reckon I'll be doing some bulb-buying come the Autumn.
I intend filling all the gaps with foxgloves and ox-eye daisies.
When I get round to it.