Picking scabs

On one of the numerous occasions tht Ian and I came to see the house last summer, when we were supposed to be buying it, but it all seemed like a hopeless dream, there was a jungle of sunflowers growing between the cracks of the paving.  They looked fabulous, like something an outdoor space with an urban clientele (like the Botanic Gardens in Singapore or perhaps even Kew) might design so that children might play hide and seek in nature on ground designed for a high volume of traffic.

Then Dad took it upon himself to come and weedkill the lot.  I understood his logic.  Weeds, or even sunflowers, push up the slabs and just because a house isn’t lived in, it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be maintained (though arguably it’s not the job of the perhaps-future-owner’s father).  So, a little bit annoying, but I saw his point.

This year the weeds came up again. I saw no sign of a sunflower jungle, which was a disappointment, but the weeds were definitely battling their way through.  So I borrowed Dad’s supercharged weedkiller and off I went.  I haven’t counted the slabs, but I do know there’s a lot of them.  Up and down the rows I went, left to right and back again.  I sprayed and sprayed.

Now weedkiller is supposed to work its way down to the roots so once you’ve sprayed you’re really supposed to leave it for a week or two.  I find that hard.  If I’ve sprayed, it’s because I think the situation’s desperate.  It’s like my hair… once I book a haircut, it’s because I should have had it cut at least three weeks ago… to delay once this decision has been made is nothing short of madness.  But I waited, watched some of the weeds die back… and then left them.  By then I was onto another project.

Then the same again.  The weeds grew and the situation was dire.  I weedkilled, I waited, and I drifted off to deal with something else.  And then the weeds won, because I didn’t spray them again.

Then Malika came to stay.  Not content with looking after four kids, showing them the sights, cooking for everyone while I went on a bender, and cleaning the house, she started weeding… amazing.  The difference was incredible… What an improvement!

But then she left… job unfinished (how dare she?!) and so the weeds taunted me again.

And to make matters worse a gardener came round to see if he can transform our flowerbed and I was so embarrassed by the weeds blowing in the breeze, the thistles and nettles and the general neglect that I blabbed “see, I am trying” and pointed at all Malika’s hard work.  And the only way then that it couldn’t be a lie (a real and complete great, big lie that is, it was obviously a lie) was to get on and do the rest. 

So I weeded, and weeded, and weeded.  And I wore through the fabulous gloves Melanie gave to me.  And I weeded on.  I have a paving-slab bruise on my index finger.  I weeded on.  Melanie came to visit and declared it was like picking scabs.  She was right, I couldn’t stop.  It’s not perfect, and I’ve not yet done the path, but it looks so much better.

And now I’ve bought myself a fabulous tool to help with the next time the weeds spring up, but for now I can sit back and enjoy the paving slabs in all their glorious hideousness.