Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
Contains some strong language.
Shortly after writing yesterday I decided to do a bit to tackle the garden. I know that I wouldn’t get everything done, but even just something was better than nothing at all. That’s my new way of life I think – stop trying to achieve perfection. These homes that look great on Pinterest are merely ideas, they’re photographs, you don’t get to see anything else. I decided on chopping down the grass and maybe, just maybe, doing a little bit of weeding as well. It didn’t have to all get done in a day, as long as I’d made some progress.
By the time I’d got out into the garden, I had to sit down with some water. Not because of any other reason, but purely because of the heat. Cutting the grass back was a stop and start effort, but I finally got the garden looking tidier again and trimmed the grass away from the stepping stones (naturally, they have an impression of a honeybee on them) that pave the way down to our shed – the shed gifted to us by my father.
In a way, the whole garden had become something of a shrine to him, but in a way, it was a shrine to my mother and my father-in-law. Bo as well. Both love gardening, and so for as long as I grew plants that I don’t mind, I could enjoy the gardening, too.
One of my biggest pet peeves is bindweed. Not only is it creeping and gets entwined into everything, but it’s large, papery, trumpet-shaped flowers wreak havoc on my anthophobia as well. I hate them, they made me shudder with revulsion and want to turn away. Even if they’re just flowers, they’re horrible to me.
And so as soon as I saw the large, heart-shaped leaves begin to appear in my garden, I knew that I had to take action.
Under Bill’s recommendations, I sought out some Roundup gel. Bill is my go-to guy when it comes to all things gardens, and probably one of the reasons that I learned to trust him. I learned that Bill would give me the facts straight – real, honest advice, down-to-earth and no messing. I think it’s why we work so well, and why Matt and Bill get along too. We cut to the chase but without ever being too serious and dull. There’s always time for laughs and jokes afterwards.
With the gel dabbed on, I’ve left the bindweed to die off in its own time, and the abundance of weeds all over the gravel was the next on my list. I’ve made a mental note to take a peek at the ground sheet at some point and perhaps patch it up a little bit, especially towards the top end where plenty of thistles are. Stepping over those to get to the shed is already a pain – nobody wants a thistle up the trouser leg, though perhaps, only the true masochist.
Shortly after cutting the grass, Matt joined me in the garden. We hadn’t done it often enough and now that we had, it felt oddly nice. Owing to several factors, we hadn’t really appreciated our garden since 2018 and now that our attention had been turned to it, it saddened us both to realise just quite how much it had been neglected.
“I think,” I began, “first Dad went and obviously nobody was feeling the gardening spirit, then in 2020 we got locked down and we just stayed locked down. That, and getting out here is a real pain in the rear.”
To get into our rear garden, first there’s a double-locked communal gate, then there’s the shuffle past our neighbour’s piles of whatever crap he’s left out there, then there’s our little locked side gate on top. In all, it’s three padlocks, plus what feels like a five-metre tightrope walk To back and forth between the house, there’s the shuffle and two gates each way. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make you not want to bother with the garden at all.
I still need to write a letter to our local authority regarding us getting a back door installed, and with me blogging a little bit less, it’s something that I finally plan to get done. I am the letter-writer of the family, as you can probably tell, and I have a rather capable way of writing with conviction. We all have talents that we can brag about, and it just so happens to be that assertive, confident writing is one of mine. It’s both a blessing and a curse and sometimes it’s a curse when you’re the one that gets called upon to write the letters when you already have plenty to do . As long as it’s only for my nearest and dearest and not just some chancer taking liberties of my skills, I don’t mind.
As I sat on the bench and contemplated the garden, Matt sat close by and idly began pulling out weeds, grabbing them by the roots, rather than the stems. I made a mental note to make use of his mindfullness a lot more often. Like that, the garden would be uptogether in no time.
I tried grabbing one of the thistles with gardening gloves on, and what awaited me was nothing at all of a pleasant experience. Realising that pulling them out wasn’t an option and I didn’t want to dig up the gravel, I settled for the only option that I had left.
“Die, prangle-maker, die!!” I shouted childishly as I dabbed the Roundup gel onto the thistle. I dabbed two or three leaves per plant, you know, just to be sure.
“What are you like?” Matt laughed. I grinned.
“A fully responsible and capable adult who never, ever acts like a big kid?” I replied. He shook his head.
The incinerator sat beside me full of dried weeds and yet, for whatever reason, I still haven’t incinerated it. I think, perhaps subconsciously, there is the thought of the environmental impact: Fire is smoke, smoke is part carbon dioxide, carbon dioxide is a greenhouse gas, greenhouse gases cause the albedo effect, and the albedo effect is responsible for global warming. Damn my environmental science studies for making me so nerdy.
We’d talked about having a ‘burn’ to get rid of the weeds, and it almost felt as an alternative to what would have been our Friday night plans. I was a little disappointed, in a way – why couldn’t we have a burn, then play time? As slightly sad as I was though, I also didn’t mind – I quite like fire.
As it was, we didn’t have our burn, we just spent much of our time in talking or in quiet contemplation instead. It was nice, the neighbour wasn’t out there, we could hear ourselves think without some god-awful remix drowning out our thoughts. Once the weather cooled, we retreated back indoors for some food.
Instead of the usual chicken rojan josh and naan that we have on a Kinky Fuckery Friday, Matt made up some chicken shashlik wraps. Minus the not-quite-cooked rice, to be honest, I’d forgotten how moreish that recipe was. It’s gluttonous, messy and fun, and I love it.
I helped Matt roll the shashliks into the tin foil, and for my effort, he afforded me the small piece of chicken thigh on the plate.
“Thank you, Master” I said sarcastically. “Fuck me, that was far too submissive for me!” I laughed.
“Good girl” Matt replied, swatting me across the backside as I headed out of the kitchen.
“Could you imagine,” I began, “going on a picnic, everyone has ham and cheese sandwiches and we rock up with these beasts?”. I grinned wickedly. I could, and it would be funny, especially with someone like my Mum who would expect me to be fairly plain-Jane. I like to surprise people and I like to exceed myself from time to time. Life is too short for the mundane and the expected.
I’m not saying that nothing happened, because to be honest, I think it was already in the air. I knew that my neighbour’s younger daughter was trying to sleep upstairs, but I also didn’t care. Spanking was out of the question and impact play was off of the menu, too, but so what? There was still plenty of fun to be had without them.
Before and after: It’s a work in progress!
Hugo enjoying the garden