This blog is supposed to be about my gardening attempts as well as books, but you would never know it at the moment. After a whirlwind of activity earlier this month in a desperate attempt to get the front garden ready for its stint as a location for stalls for the church's Scarecrow Festival, activity there has been none.
The back garden is a sad, and overgrown disaster. The terrace is looking particularly bad after I took up a couple of the vile concrete slabs to uproot a decent sized rosemary bush which was growing between them, and left the slabs where they lay. I plan to get rid of most of the slabs (they will have a second life either as things to be used by a magician friend, who will balance them on his stomach while someone clobbers the slab with a sledgehammer, or I'll freecycle them, which would certainly be a duller existence than journeying around the county and being smashed up.) Eventually, after meaning to for months, I will replace the evil slabs with gravel.
The borders are still full of tall and noticeable weeds, and the grass is crowded (we went beyond dotted some time ago) full of windfalls I haven't picked up in weeks. However, as the grass has not been cut for some time this is becoming less of a problem as the windfalls are simply less visible. Added to this it is of course Autumn, and that means falling leaves. I love Autumn when it is in the street or the wood and I can kick through leaves which I have always liked doing since a child, but I absolutely loathe raking up leaves from the lawn. It ranks with ironing, which is possibly my most hated housework task, as my most hated gardening job.
I can guarantee that whenever I finally prod myself into doing something about the leaves, an evil squall will spring up from nowhere and whirl the leaf piles I have carefully created into scattered chaos.
Still, on the slightly more cheerful front, I have, at last, planted my garlic. Three rows of it, and I hope it doesn't suffer as badly from rust as this year's lot did.