Next door’s new fence looks pretty good, all things considered.
It’s nice and tall so it offers us a modicum of privacy and it offers a nice backdrop to the plants.
And, as the guy who put it in said to us, it’ll give us an incentive to get our garden looking nice.
The weekend consisted of him telling me, Carole or both of us that he had “found” things in our garden. A nice bedding plant, for example. Or a boxed bit of garden. Or some bird feeders.
I mean, it was nice he pointed it all out to us. We knew everything was there, partly because we put it there. Had I been so inclined, I could have invited him into the shed where, on the roof, I have drawn the plans for the L-shaped vegetable box (that lasted as a veg garden for precisely one season).
Instead, he kept picking at the state of our garden. Which, luckily, we didn’t have too much pride in as he pretty much walked across it all in order to put the new fence in. Stopping only to complain about the tangled mess of clematis (“I don’t know what this is, there’s a net or something in here…”) which had nicely grown to be self supporting after the frame it was attached to was destroyed by over-zealous tree cutters some years ago.
Even as we explained what it was, and why it was in the state it was, he still turned his nose up at it and folded it in on itself so he could have more room.
Had the net frame still been up he’d have been buggered for access.
To top it all off, though, at the end of the weekend’s critique of our garden he then admitted to having a gardener.
What made it worse was that we went out into the garden to make the most of what we had left of Sunday. Which had always been a plan. But it was hard to make it look like we weren’t just reacting to his hurtful gardening barbs.