The weather forecasters were wrong. In my corner of the UK the weather was gorgeous. On Monday I got two or three hours gardening done in my patch of the garden then rain and thunder stopped play. Yesterday afternoon when I had time, it was too wet to contemplate gardening.
Today, Wednesday, I was out with spade, fork, rake, secateurs and wellie boots on, before 9.am. Elevenses, was an invitation out for coffee and a fruit scone. A quick personal transormation was called for. I couldn’t go out with my hair all over the place, dirt smeared all over my tee shirt and looking like I’d come up from a coal pit.
At half past two, famished and parched but with a glow, I stopped for light refreshment and listened to the afternoon play on the radio. Rested and re-energised, I went out again to work in the garden.
There was as much, if not more evidence of a bio massacre, than on Monday. And yay! Hubby took out, as much as he could, of the rose tree, (grotty and diseased) that I had been trying to get rid of for years. Another bushy perennial had taken over too much ground and had securely rooted under the path. What a pain. Again, hubby put his best shoulder foward, guillotining more of the bush trunk than I had intended. A stump is left, from which, without a doubt, more problems will grow. I shall have to watch that one. The piles of gardening debris will mean a trip to the communal domestic waste disposal facility.
At half past four, having raked some fresh top soil around the patch and forked it in, I took off my wellies, put everything away, tidied up me again and sunk into an armchair, where, I literally had forty winks followed by a refreshing vanilla red bush tea.
Then I heard the weather forecaster telling me that it had rained on and off all day here. Well, I’ve got news for you, it didn’t. However, I cannot vouch for the temperatures tonight. They’re forecast to drop to as low as 2 degrees centigrade.