Not In My Garden

I’m nipping over to my mum’s tomorrow to do a series of jobs that I have not yet decided upon, in a bid to stop her stressing out about things getting away from her/us/everyone and going around saying “What’s the point in anything?” and declaring that she can’t be arsed at every given opportunity.

I’m not looking forward to it, primarily because it’s going to be pretty bloody warm again and one thing about my mum’s garden is it has the insane ability to be sunny wherever you happen to be.

In other words, I’m going to be red as a red thing when all is said and done.

Mum’s away at the moment. She’s been whisked to Poland by the witches to do whatever people do in Poland. So I’m taking this opportunity to go and do some bits and bobs as a bit of a surprise, I guess, but also because it’s sometimes easier to just crack on without mum interjecting with various things.

And, also, because I do feel massively guilty about letting her down, or being perceived as letting her down with stuff. Tomorrow is my penance and atonement.

I’m going to be at mum’s for a while. I’m planning on going early and won’t be back until late. Which offers plenty of time for me to do stuff. Or plenty of time for me to look at all the stuff that needs doing and have a stress about how there is so much to do and how I feel guilty and then get stuck in a guilt spiral to misery.

And, of course, sunburn and/or heatstroke.

All this while still not having booked the day off work, so I might have to come back to Huddersfield at short notice to run a game. Which goes some way to explaining why the bag I have packed for tomorrow is so full. I have gone on holiday with less stuff than I have in my bag. It weighs a ton. I’ve had to cover every eventuality – so work, sweating and getting soaked to the skin. The last one is pretty much a certainty if I do anything that involves reinstalling the pond that I took out a year or so ago and have never got around to putting back, not to mention crawling inside a water butt to try and fix the leaky tap and countless other things that will see a grown man soaked and sweary in my mum’s garden.

And that’s before I even consider the prospect of tackling the huge patch of nettles that mum has somehow nurtured into existence.

I’m willing to bet she hasn’t nurtured a huge patch of dock leaves as well.

Wish me luck…