We don’t have much of a garden, in both senses: the plot behind the house isn’t particularly large; and what there is of it isn’t much of a garden. The previous owner’s dog burnt off much of the lawn with strategic urination, leaving a patchwork of petulant looking grass drooping across bare mud like a dozen feeble combovers. Off a trellis hangs some sort of climbing dead thing, last year’s strong winds having blown the whole lot over and finally doing for it, snapping its last remaining root.
Straggly bushes, brambles and next door’s opportunistic ivy compete for space on a clay border, dotted with pebbles that only serve to such the remaining joy and lightness out of it. And it’s probably best if we don’t mention the shed, or the tree I might have killed.
But it’s still a garden. It might not be the sprawling plot we had in our last rental place, but then it isn’t doomed to the same casual negligence that Mad Bitch Jocelyn cast over her own property, dooming us in turn to impotence as we waited in vain for the promised tools or the promised gardener to tackle all of her fucking bamboo.
Our garden also doesn’t have one of those ultimately problematic anti-weed rugs buried under it, which buy-to-let fuckheads put down and cover with pebbles in the hope that they can then safely ignore nature until the mortgage is paid off. They’d be better off burying their heads under pebbles, of course: these rugs eventually form an ideal matrix for tenuous varieties of grass, which burrow through the weave, tangle themselves up in it, and generally become impossible to remove.
The garden is, in short, within our power to change. It will never be bigger, but it could easily be better.