Jul 11, 2020: One Hundred And Thirteen

I was out in the garden this afternoon, cobbling together things and cutting back other things, so that we can run some willow screening – or something of that ilk – around the bottom of the garden to hide the shitty waste ground behind our house, and to make Carole’s little nook of retreat a better place by blocking it off from our neighbours in a nice and fancy way.

It’s not an easy task. But I am tackling it with aplomb. I have a plan, which lives in my head, and so far things are going according to it.

I want to do it all as a surprise for Carole. But also, I have no desire to do that because manhandling the rolls of screening, attaching them to the existing fence and the elaborate system I’ve come up with requires more than my two hands. And because halfway along the fence line is a massive rose bush which, I think, absolutely hates me. It got me today when I was cutting back a different tree and I was nowhere near it, and yet somehow it had as very firm grip on my sleeve.

And the fact that today’s little bit – literally some cutting back and nailing for uprights into position – took over an hour to do. My initial estimate was that the whole thing would only take a couple of hours, and the stuff that’s left is definitely more than an hour… and needs a spirit level if I want to be entirely anal about the whole affair. And I need to move some tires filled with ferns, and a storage box. And some parts of a dry stone wall.


Yeah… couple of hours my arse.

And be able to hold up the fencing and fix it in position with just two human hands… nah.

Bugger that.