There are distinct advantages of living at your parents' house: cheap rent is one, and cheap rent is another (I know that technically this is just one point, but it's such a big one that I thought I'd mention it twice). Now that I'm "home alone", as it were, I have had several responsibilities thrust upon me, the most onerous of which is tending the garden.
When my father left last month he left instructions that I should dig out a pernicious patch of brambles at the back of the garden "with the roots" so that they wouldn't grow back. What he failed to tell me was that bramble roots can extend to over half a metre underground. So there I was heaving and ho-ing for the best part of Monday trying to get the buggers out and although I got most of them I'm sure there are a few blighters left that will survive to reclaim their patch of the garden and I will be, once again, forced to do battle with them. Not something I'm particularly relishing as the battle against nature is a race against the Red Queen and not one you can win.
Despite having often waxed lyrical about the beauty of the great outdoors and unspoilt wilderness I'll also be the first to admit that I am an urbanite at heart (I'm too pragmatic to be able to overlook the advantages of public transport, readily accessible amenities and cultural establishments) and am lacking the gardening passion which seems to grip the rest of the country. It might possibly have something to do with my aversion to trying to tame nature, preferring to let it be; or perhaps my general laziness and aversion to doing any work unless it's strictly necessary.
When my father left last month he left instructions that I should dig out a pernicious patch of brambles at the back of the garden "with the roots" so that they wouldn't grow back. What he failed to tell me was that bramble roots can extend to over half a metre underground. So there I was heaving and ho-ing for the best part of Monday trying to get the buggers out and although I got most of them I'm sure there are a few blighters left that will survive to reclaim their patch of the garden and I will be, once again, forced to do battle with them. Not something I'm particularly relishing as the battle against nature is a race against the Red Queen and not one you can win.
Despite having often waxed lyrical about the beauty of the great outdoors and unspoilt wilderness I'll also be the first to admit that I am an urbanite at heart (I'm too pragmatic to be able to overlook the advantages of public transport, readily accessible amenities and cultural establishments) and am lacking the gardening passion which seems to grip the rest of the country. It might possibly have something to do with my aversion to trying to tame nature, preferring to let it be; or perhaps my general laziness and aversion to doing any work unless it's strictly necessary.
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