A central entrance path splits two square patches of grass. Neither would be much bigger than a Steve Harmison pitch map. Box hedges surround them—I only know this because the maintainer is adamant they are clipped and well looked after.
The front of the garden butts the pavement and has several rose bushes, maintained by at least three caring ladies on the street. The roses are in strong demand during the warmer months—there is always a polite request for permission to remove—one was for a wedding anniversary that was close to my age. Of course you can, they're not really mine. And those two patches of grass are also maintained weekly by the next-door neighbours—Pete and Anne.
I have what you could call a community garden. It's fantastic. First it was born from sympathy and a lack of knowledge on my side. Now, like all good things, it's become a habitual pursuit undertaken without question.
I really don't know where I'd be without it.
In the past tense: both wife and partner were excellent practitioners, and both equally dedicated to the task. If you wanted to look deeper, you could easily assume their green fingers were a product of my ignorance.
I like grass. I’ve spent my life trying to make a living off it.
Tomorrow I’ll table a defence and talk about the strain of gardening that is more familiar to me.
Closing—I am continually thankful to my garden’s maintainers. They are all wonderful people. True community.
Nick
