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I don't understand it, I really don't. As a child, my frequent punishment for all manner of misdemeanors was inevitably some sort of gardening task. My father was a natural gardener, and loved nothing more than standing with a cold beer in hand whilst I and my other siblings toiled like slaves. As a result, in my later years, I sought out flats above the ground level, which were subsequently free of earth, grass and most importantly, vegetable patches.
A mere 40 odd years later, I despise mowing the lawn. In fact, I hate it so much I formulated a plan to eradicate all living items from the garden that sadly came with the house I purchased. I designed a mass of concrete, glass and wood, and set about persuading my other half that it was a glamorous and functional alternative to any living organism.
Then it happened. I was walking around what laughingly calls itself a local farm shop, cursing the people who brought children out in public and wondering why the shallots were so spongy, when I saw the magazine display. I headed over hoping to find some motoring publication or even a bit of old fashioned pornography, but all they had was some rag about chicken keeping and a copy of GYO.
So, here I am, which proves that I didn't go for Chicken Husbandry Monthly, or whatever it was called. I currently have a handful of contradictory books, a subscription to GYO, an order for enough timber to build a bunch of raised beds (I haven't a notion about what to fill them with; manure, soil, halibut, whatever), and a pair of boots!
Unfortunately, I don't have a solitary clue about how (or why) I am embarking on this foolhardy adventure, but I figure that at some point I might start to understand what it all means.
If you find me asking dumb questions, please try to understand that it's probably because I am dumb.
A mere 40 odd years later, I despise mowing the lawn. In fact, I hate it so much I formulated a plan to eradicate all living items from the garden that sadly came with the house I purchased. I designed a mass of concrete, glass and wood, and set about persuading my other half that it was a glamorous and functional alternative to any living organism.
Then it happened. I was walking around what laughingly calls itself a local farm shop, cursing the people who brought children out in public and wondering why the shallots were so spongy, when I saw the magazine display. I headed over hoping to find some motoring publication or even a bit of old fashioned pornography, but all they had was some rag about chicken keeping and a copy of GYO.
So, here I am, which proves that I didn't go for Chicken Husbandry Monthly, or whatever it was called. I currently have a handful of contradictory books, a subscription to GYO, an order for enough timber to build a bunch of raised beds (I haven't a notion about what to fill them with; manure, soil, halibut, whatever), and a pair of boots!
Unfortunately, I don't have a solitary clue about how (or why) I am embarking on this foolhardy adventure, but I figure that at some point I might start to understand what it all means.
If you find me asking dumb questions, please try to understand that it's probably because I am dumb.
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