So there I was, secateurs in one hand, hoe in the other, gaily skipping about dearest mothers garden. The sun was out, the air was warm if not hot, birds were making little choral contributions and, in short, all was well in the Duffy world. It is, and has been for awhile, one of those odd jobs, gardening that is, that I perform by way of earning my keep. I must admit at this point that I have about as much knowledge regarding things horticultural as I do astrophysics – in other words I know bugger all. Things grow, you water them or cut them dependant on what point of the calendar we are at or in my case when Mum tells me to.
Mum had instructed me that I should wield the hoe in a manner feudal. Thrusting and turning muddy bits of earth until it looked fresh and, well, garden like. First though, or so she said, I should set off, much like the Queen of Hearts from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by re-enacting that phrase she so memorably uttered, the Queen of Hearts that is and not ageing Mamon - “Off with their heads.” Dearest mater opined that weeds were the enemy and I must Blitz them without mercy but also the Daffs as they had past, much like me, their prime.
And so I did.
I cut, I sliced, I nimbly decapitated every foul looking weed and Daffodil looking plant I came across, manfully and without hesitation. My determination was, if not grim, stoic. I tugged up bind weed, I dug at Dandelions, I de-frocked ‘Horsehair’ (whatever that is) and removed a lifeless looking set of rag-taggedly brownish stalks that really had no right to be rooted in soil in the first place.
Job done I settled back with a can of coke and a look of self-satisfaction on the old deuce and ace. Mum approached me not with a plate of scones covered in cream and jam but a look of matronly consternation.
“Where have my Hydrangeas gone?”
“Hy what?” I choked a reply.
“Hydrangeas. Flowers. The word is derived from the plants need to have lots of water, “said mother instructively.
“Wouldn’t that then be Hydro rather than Hydra?” I, forever the pedant, foolishly queried.
“Do not prevaricate. Where is my lovely plant?”
“In the compost,” I muttered lamely.
The look on aged relatives face was to say the least, not attractive. One might suggest it being reproachful. Mother turned from me shaking her head theatrically, patently disappointed in her only son’s performance as a horticulturist. Green as cabbage I may be but sadly not green of finger.
all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy.To view my books on Amazon/Kindle go here: https://www.amazon.com/author/russellduffy -- For another side of CJ go here: sOMeThiNg For tHE wEeKeND, SiR?