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8 hours ago
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My wife and I enjoy gardening chiefly because it’s something we can do together while keeping well out of each other’s way – our garden isn’t big, but it’s bigger than our kitchen. We also have separate spheres of influence: I am in charge of the grass, the tree and the raised bed at the back. My wife has command of the long beds. The front garden is seasonal – my wife runs things there until the end of May, at which point I take over.
We do not normally speak while we garden, although at some point we meet to discuss who has done more work.
“Look, I’ve weeded this entire bed,” my wife says, pointing.
“I have sawn many limbs,” I say, “and hammered a broken fence back together.”
“I’ve also done 15,000 steps,” she says. “Just carting stuff.”
“I replaced six sections of trellis,” I say.
“That was last year,” she says.
“I have worked so hard,” I say, “that my phone no longer recognises my thumbprint.”
“That’s a lie,” she says.
But it’s true. I believe that – in the same way that it’s important to stand up from your desk and exercise at intervals – you should take regular breaks from gardening to sit down and check your email. I show my wife how the phone says “Try again” each time I present my gnarled, grubby thumb.
“Wear gloves,” she says.
After another half an hour of activity, my wife and I pause to have an argument about the garden waste wheelie bin.
“I need you to drag it out front,” she says. “They’re coming on Wednesday.”
“It’s too heavy,” I say, tugging on the handle with one finger to assess the weight of the contents.
“Put your back into it,” she says.
“I don’t mean too heavy for me,” I say. “It’s too heavy for the bin truck. They won’t take it.”
“You mean you can’t be bothered,” she says.
“Also,” I say, lifting the lid, “there’s a banana in here.”
“So what?” she says. “It was rotten.”
“Banana is food waste,” I say. “Not garden waste. They won’t take it.”
“For all they know I might be growing bananas back here,” she says.
“If it was a potato, I would accept your logic,” I say.
“What do you suggest?”
“Leave the lid open for two days,” I say. “Everything will dry out and become much lighter.”
“So unbelievably lazy,” she says.
“I find gardening very therapeutic,” I say. “Don’t you?”
Gardening may be therapeutic, but it’s also never-ending: every inch of progress reveals more to do. You spend a day installing six new trellis sections, and 18 months later two more need replacing. Even as we eat lunch the dog digs a series of deep holes in the raised bed I’ve only just turned and raked flat. There are similar holes all over the lawn.
I spend the afternoon pinched in the 18-inch gap between my office shed and the garden wall, trying to trim a vine above my head without quite being able to see what I’m doing. I’m surrounded by rose thorns which sink into my legs through my trousers every time I move. Halfway along, I find that I am trapped. I think: I don’t need this much therapy.
The dog pokes its head round the corner and looks at me.
“Get help,” I say. The dog stares for a moment more, then starts digging.
Eventually, I manage to extricate myself by climbing upwards, first on to the wall, then the shed roof.
“What are you doing up there?” my wife says.
“You know, just surveying,” I say.
“See what I’ve done,” she says.
We stand in the middle of the grass, arms folded, looking over everything. A robin lands on the handle of the fork I’ve left stuck in the bed.
“So much left to do,” my wife says.
“I know,” I say. “There’s a rotten trellis I can’t even get to.”
“You can at least cut all that ivy right down,” she says.
“Not until after nesting season,” I say.
“Are you making that up?” she says. “No,” I say. “It’s called stewardship.” I’m sure someone once mentioned nesting season to me in the context of hedge-trimming, because I distinctly remember thinking: what an excuse.
“And when does nesting season end?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “June? October? I think it depends on many factors.”
I take out my phone to find evidence to back up my excuse. My phone says: “Try again.”
