Planting out

Mould, the 3rd assistant undergardener is currently laid on a board, groaning gently and awaiting the arrival of the vet. Informal opinion around the household is that his back is 'fucked' after pulling what appears to be a reasonably sized quarry-load of stones, rubble and assorted rubble from the formally disused section of the Small Garden.

This proved to be rather a large undertaking, requiring as it did the clearing of the most vicious plant cover this side of Da Nang (Ivy) and the managed disposal of wildlife (shooing away of Gilbert the garden frog, tossing of snails onto rocks to form avian smorgsboard and treatment of spiders as follows - those smaller than a fifty pee piece, flicked away, those larger, brushed away with suitable implement, those larger still - run away screaming and hope they have vanished by the time tea is drunk).

Rocks then had to be unearthed and placed in some area where they would not form a danger to life and limb.

This only leaves a load of digging to be done to level the area before some thing the present Lady of the House informs me is called 'decking' is put in.

At the end of the day, fortified with a bucket of Chateau Plonk, I surveyed the rocks. there is enough there to form a base for sure and they can be usefully recycled. the largest one though is something else. Obviously a paving slab the damn thing has been weathered to the extent that, when placed upright it looks like a headstone. All it needs is a name and a date and I could upgrade the sensation of having it so near the house from 'eerie' to 'spooky'.

There is though, a possible use. Seeing the staff nearly getting choked with Ivy and menaced by spiders reminds one of ones own mortality and I decided once more to run the notion of internment in the Small Garden past the LOTH once more. The reception it got was so chilly I could have kept bacon on it for a week.

Not because, as I would hope, my passing will be marked by a display of Armenian Grief and the LOTH will, as a mater of course, throw herself onto my pyre but rather because having somebody buried in the back garden, even intentionally, would 'devalue' the property.

Excuse me? I rather think that my permanent presence would only enhance the place. I also like the idea of having a vine planted in close proximity for reasons that are now getting a bit macabre now I come to commit them to blog.

Still, it's either that or a viking funeral and it's bloody difficult to get a longboat these days.

Finally - I have approved extra bacon and use of the horse liniment and expect Mould to be up and about in no time, though he will have to suppress urges to gallop through surf.