This has been a month of hard labor. Having spent 4 years destroying the perfectly acceptable garden that we inherited when we moved in here, we are now spending several thousand pounds and a lot of calories re-building it to our own specifications. So what if we are buying new grass to put in the same place as the perfectly acceptable grass used to be? It’s OUR grass, OK?
I am currently taking a sneaky break from the 10 tonne top-soil mountain which I am moving shovel-full by shovel-full from our neighbour’s drive (they’re away) to the new beds. So far, hidden amongst this ‘augmented-with-organic-materials’ top soil, we have discovered a cable-tie, a knife, a set of ladies’ beads and some items of clothing. Is this the place where drug dealers go to die? Still, I’m sure they’ll make excellent fertiliser for my roses.
The closest I got to a family portrait this month was when I bribed my recalcitrant 7 year old with a trip to the pub. My teen became more compliant with a Guinness in his hand. Bang goes my Tesco’s Mum of the Year again.
The absence of hubby (due to lack of tripod for self-timer) in the first photo meant handing over the reins to my teenage prodigy. Note to self: teach George the art of background selection. There may be a tree growing out of my head, but as a friend reminded me, we should be thankful for the absence of shagging cows.
Goodbye May. You were fleeting, soggy but productive.
Anyway, back to my topsoil….
