The garden however, much to the dismay of its former custodians who it seemed were quite fond of their collection of exotica, was not in our opinion, in a state deemed worthy of preservation. Our thoughts were confirmed not long after we’d contracted to buy the place, when we visited a “landcare” exhibition and to our horror found an example of every plant in our garden in the display of “noxious, listed and undesirable plants”. All of that of course is in the dim dark past, with almost no trace of that miscreant vegetation remaining. The hardy remnants even after a decade, are regularly castigated by means chemical, mechanical and in recent times pyrotechnical.
Ahh, the pyrotechnics. The other of us was given one of those propane blowtorch things by her daughters, for Mother’s Day. These are things they use to take the life of anything green or its progeny for doing no more than say, trying to grow between the cobbles on a footpath. Suffice to say that things have never looked more pristine in our gravel paving edges ever since.
All of which brings me to the little florist shop we passed today, proudly displaying little buckets of exactly the sort exotica she takes such joy in incinerating.
As we stopped to inspect the display, she developed a twitch in her propane burner finger. Actually it was worse than a twitch.
We had to move on quickly, had there been even a stray box of matches within reach there was a very real risk of conflagration!
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