Tuesday, 28 March 2017

We're not at home to Mr Prickly

As hinted at by the blog name, on occasion, I am not without a small amount of tetchiness, with a side order of grump. I know, I know, it's unbelievable, eh? Because surely I'm the epitome of sweetness and light? OK, maybe not.

Some warm weather at the weekend was enough to turn a body's thoughts to contemplating the arrival of Spring and the imminent commencement of lawn mowing duties. But first there was the small task of checking the vast grassiness for weeds. To be fair, the whole garden is 'weeds', as nary a single seed of cultivated grass has been sown. This means that within the uncouth thatch is a riotous mixture of dock, buttercup, plantains, celandines and heaven knows what else. I am not too worried by this cosmopolitan assemblage as, apart from the areas left deliberately uncut, the mower blades seem to keep all in check. Apart from the thistles.

You see, the thistles have this thing going on where, for the first year they don't grow upwards, they grow outwards, producing a large but rather low rosette. Very symmetrical, very prickly, very below the radar of the mower.

So, in pleasant sunshine, I wandered to and fro, hither and thither, across the garden, searching for elusive thistles hiding away in the lengthening sward. Scarlet pimpernels they are not.

After a goodly while my eyes were beginning to ache but, eventually, me and my trusty trug trudged wearily back to the starting point, satisfied that a significant proportion of surreptitious spikiness had been rendered safe.

Coincidentally enough, although I was wearing stout gloves, I did not emerge from the encounter unscathed. Elusive Thistle = E.T. = Ouch!


Anonymous said...

as long as when you put them in the bucket you didn't say "this'll do"!!!!
Cpt. Sundial

Imperfect and Tense said...

It was much, very much, more Anglo Saxon than that.