Happy anniversary us! It’s been one year since we bought The Country Estate – and spring is, again, sprunging. The plum tree is in blossom and the wattle looks like someone threw an egg at it. This means WAR!
Enemy No 1: the Front Garden. Full of grass. Also, some idiot planted Invincible Ivy, which is snaking into every corner like the Monster of the Black Mere, and will have to be slaughtered. Like Trump, The Man has his finger hovering above the Red Button – but I feel some compunction for the long-suffering daisies and azaleas, which have hung on despite all the insults thrown at them. Collateral damage?
Enemy No 2: Crouching in the couch jungle this afternoon, Vietcong-style, I came eye to eye with Ferdinand, our skink. If Ferdinand has woken from his winter sleep, I guess Cecil and Melisandre the black snakes are probably yawning and stretching as well. Beware the thing that lurks camouflaged in tall spring grass, like an ISIS commando enjoying a quick nap before his morning mayhem.
Enemy No 3: the vegetable garden (or maybe the neighbours, with their annoyingly luxuriant patches – I can’t decide). Ok, vegetables – there’s no such thing as a free ride. Pull your weight here – no more fucking around. You’ve had the compost, you’ve had the cow shit, you’ve been dug over and weeded obsessively. You WILL produce (or pay. Like NATO). Mind you, I’m already getting as much salad as I can eat (I don’t like salad, but since it’s supposed to stop me getting Alzheimers and bowel cancer I chomp through it anyway).
Yes, on this first anniversary of my Presidency (of The Property), I’ve decided to get in there and lead from the front. It’s been nice watching The Man toiling away (Rambo-like) in his cut-off tee shirts, but the shame of being a mere civilian in my own private warzone has got to me. I’ve more or less divided my day up as follows: two hours sweating it up in the garden etc, two hours creating literary masterpieces, two hours earning filthy (if inadequate) lucre, and one hour on housewifery (having not, as yet, trained the dogs to do this – they’re much better at laying mines than cleaning them up).
However, to entertain the troops, we now have the Wonder of Television (via a satellite dish on the roof). This provides, as they say in the ads, ‘hours of fun’ for The Man (who enjoys footie shows) and a free pass for me (I like to read). But we can now laugh together over the latest pronouncements of the Trump (imminent nuclear incineration notwithstanding – anyway, this is the sort of place people flee to, in case of apocalypse, and aren’t we lucky we’re already here! Now, all we need is guns to hold off the would-be refugees, right?).