There was an article in The Mail several days ago about the benefits of gardening for dementia sufferers,they find it most therapeutic. Toddling about,picking up the odd leaf, cutting off the odd dead flower,sweeping the pavement,then sitting down to a lovely cup of something or something else,a Victoria sponge at the ready. What can be more enjoyable? And there is my garden. The birds love it. The squirrels love it. Even the neighbours' cats love it. But weeds love it most of all. So last night I started weeding. Two plastic bags filled. 102 to go. Can't be,you say. Yes,it can,I say. You must be weeding Kensington Gardens, you say. Oh no,I say, only my 26 x 7m patch. But it hadn't been cultured for years and years when I took over. I did employ a young man to clear the garden,and he did,in 2 weeks, working 8 hours a day. But come next spring it looked as if it hadn't been touched for donkeys years. To really get rid of the weeds one must get rid of the roots. With this I trust no-one but myself. The process is painstakingly slow,slow,slow. Three years ago was ready to have the garden re-designed, then the bombshell of the nicest kind - my neighbour put his house on the market. I knew what this would involve. I have not been disappointed. My plans to bring the garden to its magnificent former glory have been shelved. But the weeds grow merrily and every spring I start digging out,pulling out and wiggling out the roots. Never-ending thankless task to some,labour of love to myself. Why was I overjoyed when the neighbours had moved out? The husband was not a nice man. When we said our good-byes on 17th December three years ago he said I was the best neighbour he had ever had,he only wished he had appreciated me more. When the removal van pulled out I did a little dance of joy. I was joyfully dancing for a year and a half while the new owner got her planning application in order.
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