I officially hate that bloody privacy bush.
I used to love it. I used to think it was awesome the way it blocked out the view of feral children playing football. And it’s saved the window from stray, forceful balls.
It was a great bush to peep from behind as well. After all, it was from behind the bush that I got to watch Mr Mad Cat Lady walk down the road with no trousers on.
But we cut it down because it was covering the entire front garden. I mean there’s privacy and then there was that.
I cut the bush before a fair amount of our frosty mornings. Which, as any gardener knows, is a death sentence for a plant. Not this chuffing bush though. The stump decided it would be much better if it grew new shoots.
We tackled the stump today.
I hate that bush.
I can’t imagine what curcumstances the bush’s root system is in place for, but nothing can shift that bloody think. There are roots just below the surface thicker than a baby’s arm.
And it broke the spade.
Well, I broke the spade. But it was definitely an accomplace to the whole thing.
It’s still in the garden.
But we’ve made some progress.
It turns out, if you get cross and stand on the stump to “teach it a lesson” you can break it into several smaller pieces – each held into the ground with an aforementioned baby’s arm.
And, hopefully, the amount of damage me bouncing up and down on it has done should really hamper its growing genes.
Or make it worse.
Knowing my luck it’ll be worse…
Try again tomorrow, I think.