hard labour

maggots! another rainless day, the weather gods are conspiring against me... sigh...
my wee patch of lawn is ripe for the mowing, every time i put my foot out of the door or glance out of the window, i feel guilt.

i am not a gardener, no way. my man used to take care of all that, back before he took up tending a more heavenly garden.

back home in south africa i had a marvelous gardener. piet was terrific, he would arrive once a week at the crack of dawn and sort the place out! All i had to do was supply a hearty breakfast and lunch and and keep piet hydrated with numerous cups of hot, very sweet tea. of course, once a month there was the small matter of a financial exchange in his favour, but, hell man, money could never buy what that man did for my garden.

that was way back when...
since moving to the uk, i have of necessity tended my own garden...sigh. did i say i was not a gardener? since being hurled into premature menopause (way before my time i might add), by the drug tamoxifen... well, i sweat, no really, i sweat. i still sweat even though i am now long past the hot flushes etc of a menopausal me. i used to be one of those folks who always had cold hands and feet ... no more, i burn baby, burn.

now mowing and digging and raking is warming work, even in scotland, even in october. my hair becomes plastered to my head, sweat drips off the end of my nose, my glasses fog up. oh yeah, and who really enjoys spearing poor innocent earthworms anyway?