You know when you see someone with a really, really seriously bad hair-cut? Well, that's what my poor spiraea bush looks like since I took the secateurs to it this afternoon. If the spiraea bush had a mother, she would
probably be taking me to court for Wilful Misuse of Secateurs.
I keep looking out of my kitchen window trying to decide if the poor bush looks better or worse since I gave it a short back and sides. I comfort
myself with the thought that it will surely grow back in time. I use much the same reasoning on the occasions when my fringe has grown so fast that it is impeding my vision but Nimble Fingered Sue, who cuts my hair and Mr B's, is not due to visit for another
couple of weeks. Armed with the nail scissors, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and chop away at my fringe until I can see myself. Then I try to straighten it up a bit. Then I decide I have Gone Too Far. After which I go downstairs to make myself a
cup of coffee (my answer to all self-induced disasters) and tell myself that, sure as sure, it will grow back soon enough. Or if not exactly "soon enough", at least in its own good time.
The spiraea bush did
look a litttle untidy before I started on it. It had lots of new growth sprouting out on top like someone had surprised it and made its branches stand on end in bushy fright. Without thinking through possible consequences, I had grabbed the secateurs and started
snipping. And once I started, well, I just couldn't stop until I'd rubbed a blister onto the base of my thumb and Pain Stopped Play. This is the trouble with me and gardening. No forward planning. No research into the appropriate methodology to be used. Just
enjoyable abandoning myself to the joys of Trying To Bring Order To The Garden.
Inside the house I am still endeavouring to unpack from my weekend away at the home of the Youngest of the Darling Daughters.
I blame Andy Murray myself. Every time I start unpacking, he trots onto Centre Court or thereabouts so, obviously, I have to watch. This means that I only have the two minutes between every other game, when Andy is swigging Robinson's Barley Water or towelling
himself down with his special 2015 Wimbledon towel, to remove a few items of clothing or whatever from the suitcase or the travel bag and relocate them to their rightful places. "Time!" calls the umpire - forcing me to abandon my unpacking and make it back
to the arm-chair before I incur a time penalty or the umpire's wrath.
You are probably wondering how I managed to fit in the Massacre of the Spiraea Bush this afternoon, given that Handy Andy was playing?
No? Well, I shall explain anyway. Mr B was watching the Test Match and in his book cricket always comes first. I could have finished unpacking, it is true, but the sun was shining and my fingers were itching to snip away at something green and straggly. The
poor old spiraea bush just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that it has ever been in a different place, not since it was planted many moons ago, so how could it be in the wrong place? Sometimes, I completely understand why Young Faris
thinks life is just so complicated.
Incidentally Young Faris had his induction at pre-school play group this morning. He approached this milestone with all the confidence of me approaching the spiraea bush
with my secateurs. From what I can gather from his proud mamma, aka the Middle of the Darling Daughters, our Rampaging Rascal has left behind him a Considerable Impression.
Hopefully by September when he starts
play group officially, all will be forgotten. Similarly the spiraea bush will have recovered from its shearing and I will be too busy planting daffodil bulbs to worry about sprouting branches. Time will march on.
If I really feel the need to snip - there's always my wayward fringe...