Pulling Weeds


At this time of year the garden runs away from me a bit, and so does life.

Last night I dreamt of bindweed, miles of it, coming up everywhere, winding its windy way through everything; creeping, dragging, strangling.  I woke up feeling stifled.  There was a hint of Freud about it all.

When my head feels like a pressure cooker I go into the garden and pull up weeds and pick flowers.  There aren’t too many pickable flowers in our garden at this time of year, so it’s all about nasturtiums mainly.  This evening I picked the crisp early leaves of curly kale too, which I like as a bit of mad greenery in a vase of orange.

This morning a man road-raged at me.  He had to wait a few seconds to let me get by.  I mouthed ‘sorry’.  He flashed his headlights, threw his hands in the air, looked like he was considering ploughing his car into mine, to make a point. Our daughter was in the car with me.  She was off school, glassy-eyed and full of a cold.

I got home and pulled weeds and cursed at stupid old men.

Before this dog end of the school year fizzles out I’ve got a few things to finish and the seeds of a new project to sow. Then I’ll be cleaning the dirt from my nails, shedding the mental bindweed for a day or two and heading to London for a grand publishing party courtesy of Community Care magazine.  Once the ‘party head’ has passed (I intend to make a night of it) I reckon I’ll be ready for a summer of relaxation and fun with my loved ones.  I know that’s what they’re ready for too.

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