Quick...run as fast as you can 'cos Himself has the strimmer out cutting stuff down.
I hate that feckin strimmer with a vengeance...it was responsible for totally destroying my patch of woad before the seeds set...it ate all those stunning poppies that had self-seeded on the path and it gobbled up the marjoram which the butterflies loved so much...
You see Himself doesn't think it's worth saving if it doesn't have flowers on it...and sometimes he doesn't like the flowers anyway...I can recognise every single plant before it comes into flower and saw all those baby poppy plants just waiting for a bit of sunshine and a sprinkle of rain before they opened their buds...the marjoram had finished flowering but that wasn't the point...it comes back year after year unless somebody attacks it with whizzy wire...and the woad. He thought it was a weed.
We don't have much grass you see...'cos I personally think lawns are a waste of space, unless you have half a dozen children wanting to play football, and Frank, from next door but one, cuts all alongside the road 'cos he has a ride-on mower...which means Himself can't play as much as he'd like.
I did start to stick garden canes beside every plant that I wanted...looked like a bamboo forest by the time I'd finished...but I didn't put a cane beside the arum lily. Where is the lily now? Gone.
They have those huge white trumpet shaped flowers which you can hardly miss to be honest...and they don't look like weeds.
And do you know what Himself does...when we're going round the garden centre or admiring someone else's garden he'll point out a flower which he likes and says will we get one...and it'll be the same flower he chopped down without a care only the previous week.
He's too tight to buy proper potting compost and then wonders why his tomatoes look miserable because they have their feet in lumpy old soil that's full of small creatures which bite and nibble...
Every time we go out I say...potting compost...and he says he can't get it today because the car boot is full of dog biscuit...or head collars...or newspapers.
And he won't leave the muck heap alone. Has to keep poking and prodding it and putting raw muck on what's left of the garden which just kills everything stone dead but produces a wonderful crop of nettles...
When I win the Lotto, I shall employ a man...a proper gardener who knows his stuff and I'll trail round in his wake with a tasteful basket and a pair of flower scissors snipping choice blooms for the house.
And I'll buy a huge field of grass so Himself can go and play with his strimmer all summer long...