Gardening, now if I was to say I loved it, well I would be lying. Don’t get me wrong I love nothing more than to see a nice mown lawn and colourful flowerbeds. The perfect lawn was never going to be mine. Gardening is a necessity when I can no longer find my way to the washing line. Everything about gardens makes me itch. I suffer from hay fever and every summer I end up with hives. My daily diet consists of antihistamine tablets, so the less time in the garden the better. I have a tiny front garden, which could really be controlled with nail scissors, hence why it is immaculate. Have to keep up appearances! The back garden is another story. Jungle and safari spring to mind. Last year I decided things had to change.A few good days of hard, work and I knew I could get it under control. Once I had it under control, I could pay my two bone idle (but lovely) sons a fiver a week to mow it. I roped my friend into help and protect me from any spiders. Armed with two pair of big rubber gloves up to my elbows and wellies, so what if it was July, no one could see me. My mission began. Something wasn’t right. I know I didn’t have hills the last time I had ventured out there. Yep. Hills, I had six hills, ok, not huge but hills none the same. My friend passed me a stick to poke one. Well can’t get to close. Aarrh something moved, hysterical I made my friend poke it. Aarrh, by now we were both jumping up and down waving our arms like raving lunatics. God knows what we thought we had seen.Ants. It had to be ants declared my friend; or rather, she screamed to me, I was well in the house by then. Twenty fags later and nerves of glass we were going to fix them. Back from the market with eight tubs of ant killer, any less wouldn’t do. We were dealing with red ants. They were definitely red my pal assured the market bloke. A few more fags and on went our protective clothes and sticks. I have to admit I stayed about ten-foot away shook the tube in the direction of a hill screamed and ran away. My pal was braver. Two hours and a couple of daytime soaps later back we went. ‘I think they have gone’ she shouts. Bring out my six-year-old nephew. Now before you scream child abuse, we gave him a stick. His job was to poke the ground until he found the hidden money. We give him 50p later. No, no ants. Moles, I had moles. ‘Stop don’t hurt them’. If nothing else, I am an animal lover. Those poor moles, what had I done to them. I had tried to cave their homes in and poisoned them.An hour later and not a tissue left in the house the RSPCA man arrived. ‘Not much call for moles round here’. ‘Cheer up love I doubt you will have killed them’. I couldn’t bear to watch. I was a mole killer and had even made my nephew poke them with a stick. I needed a fag or three. BED SHEETS, bed sheets! The amused buffoon of a man bellowed. Waving in his hands there was my pretty pink, or was pink, double bed sheet. Ok so it must have blown of the washing line last year and the grass grew over it. How was I to know? I have never seen an anthill and I have never seen a molehill. For that matter, I have never seen a buried sheet before either. Under those circumstances, would you know the difference? No. Exactly.
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