Woman vs garden

My lords, ladies, gentlemen, brethren, I come to you from the front lines. And by front lines, I mean the patch of land known as the garden – forever hence known as mine own enemy.

Like all girls who enjoy wearing dungarees and bandanas, I had one day envisioned myself becoming a gardener. On the podcast I produce, many of our guests expressed the joy that gardening had brought into their lives – “plant something, watch it grow, and it will change your life,” one of them said.

I imagined kneeling by a flowerbed (in a bandana and dungarees), gloves on, trowel in hand as a friend came to the back door to say hello. Dream-me lifted a hand to her glowing brow and wiped, smiling widely with the flushed glow of a woman At One with Mother Nature.

“Oh, I’ll be with you in a moment,” dream-me said. “Just repotting my begonias.”

Not so, dear reader, not so.

Real-me waited for the heatwave to pass just enough for it to be acceptable for myself (ginger and blindingly pale) to venture beyond the shady confines of my house. It was a Sunday morning – an appropriate time to develop my latest personality trait, I felt.

Naturally, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and no research was done – how hard could it be? I’d watched the Lion King and knew the drill. The antelope eats the grass, we eat the antelope, we become the grass, then we garden the grass. A breeze.

I took a tool with a rake-like attachment on one side and headed for the left flank of the flowerbed with the naive determination of a soldier sent off to war. The soil looked dry and fairly unhappy, so I raked it up a bit – aerated it, thank you – then hefted up a bag of compost, slicing it open with a box cutter (my favourite part of the process) and shaking clumps of fresh soil over the old stuff.

It already looked much better. Despite my shaking muscles, I surveyed my work with pride. Until –

“Mother of–”

I let out a small scream.

I’d disturbed a spider, grotesque and hairy, easily the size of a 50 pence coin. It froze, body quivering, and we stared at each other. I wore Birkenstocks, the natural footwear of an Outdoorsy Person, and was filled with heinous visions of the spider making a break for it and sprinting over my naked toes. Heart thumping, I looked around for a weapon with which to defend myself, and settled on a broom.

With the utmost caution, I nudged the spider. It moved the tiniest bit. Maybe it was dead, expired in the heatwave. I nudged it again, braver this time, and it disappeared. I screamed again, and threw the broom as far away from me as I possibly could in case it had somehow crawled between the bristles, and backed up to the other side of the garden, breathing heavily.

‘This,’ I thought to myself, ‘is not for the weak.’

First encounter over, I bravely returned to the flowerbed and heaved over yet another bag of soil, pleased with the neatness I’d restored by covering all the weeds (instead of removing them, which I now realise may have been appropriate). More creepy crawlies emerged to torment me, snails and woodlice that were seemingly overjoyed by their new habitat.

I then disturbed another two spiders by moving some pots, and naturally freaked out again. At this point, I was shaking – through fear, adrenaline, or the effort of moving bags of soil, or a combination of the three.

I checked the clock – half an hour had passed. It could have been a lifetime. Some small consolation for my labours was a little robin who flew down to investigate the newly turned soil, and regarded me with much curiosity. If I saw the huffing and puffing and screaming of a grown woman as she attempted to garden, I too might stare.

Of course, through this trauma I have learned some things.

Firstly, you don’t get nature without nature. Ergo, if you want pretty plants and neat borders, you must also accept that all manner of horrific beings also live in that habitat (woodlice, I’m looking at you).

Secondly, where did I get the notion that gardening was an aesthetic hobby? This is hard work, dirty work, and regrettably for my laziness requires some actual knowledge and research.

Thirdly, my mother likes to dub my arms ‘wet noodles’ which, though offensive, is accurate. I quickly realised just how weedy (pun intended) I’d become, as what little strength I possessed quickly faded, and I was forced to return inside for some Weetabix and a sit down. An hour later, I haven’t been back outside, and may never do so again.