I admit to a love of nature and most things green, except brussel sprouts, beet greens, cabbage, and broccoli (I love it but it hates me) , but I have never quite understood the depth of devotion the English hold for pottering in the garden. I grew up with my father’s tomato plants, and the chore of watering them daily in the lovely Californian summer. Strangely that didn’t put me off eventually growing my own tomatoes in our greenhouse, but I don’t think I’m a true gardener at heart, especially after hours of trying to rid the rockery (another thing I don’t get its just a pile of dirt and rocks) of strangling ivy that had been ignored for most of the time since we moved into this house three years ago. I spent the majority of the day cutting and pulling at the ivy, plagued by spiders, assaulted by green and brown caterpillars, annoyed by hoards of slugs and snails, and one incredibly pissed off frog.
H my son thought the frog would be a great pet. H is three and a half and quickly ran to get a bucket and fill it with water, We put the frog in the bucket on a rock. The frog was so not impressed, H thought the frog was great, Till it jumped out of the swishing bucket and hopped into the path of Holly, the squashed faced demon eyed kitten from over the fence. The frog or probably toad as it was quite yellowish hopped away before the kitten could get to it and H said bye bye and went off to terrorize Holly the cat instead. In any event the ivy is as gone as its going to get and the rockery looks a lot better, cement chunks and all. I’m off to take a very deserving bubble bath and read my book.