As we continue our ascent towards the peak of summer, my garden finds itself languishing in a sorry state of neglect. Well, that’s not strictly true. My husband still regularly mows the grass, trims the hedges and dispenses with the persistent weeds that pop up between the cracks in the paving stones.
But the parts I typically look after, the planters that usually hold bright clusters of flowers and the raised beds that, by this stage of the year, are normally bursting with a bounty of vegetables, have fallen by the wayside. In many ways, the garden is an apt metaphor for life. There are times when you put off tasks to focus on other things and before you know it, what was once a simple and straightforward job has morphed into the equivalent of hacking through dense jungle with a machete.
Which is where we find ourselves in the present day. Instead of a machete, I’m armed with secateurs, gardening gloves and the brown wheelie bin. My dog, dozing on the nearby lawn, casually opens an eye as I trundle past, his expression that of undisguised disdain, as if to say, “Yep, rather you than me”.
READ MORE 'I felt a searing pain in my foot. Every step was agony' Running taught me how to heal and rebuild my body I start with the raised beds, grabbing handfuls of tall weeds. Some tree seedlings have taken root: sycamore, birch and ash.
Nettles and wildflowers too. My biceps, thighs and lower back soon begin to burn with the effort, as perspiration beads my forehead. I unearth a.
