My New Word.

I never got the point in vests. I know it’s a strange thing to say but really, who thought they were a good idea? They don’t keep you warm; if you’re cold, you wear a jumper, and don’t get me started on the arms. And all the holes in them. And the fabric. And whom they’re worn by. And they don’t look cool. I could keep going. It doesn’t matter. It was just on my mind.

I was gardening this week. Yes, you read correctly. Gardening. I don’t look like a gardener. I don’t look like anything good. I like to put all my energy into any activity I undergo. I like to think about it and really try hard with it. I think about the easiest way to do it. It bugs people. ‘Get on with it!’ they shout. Then chant. Then chant some more. Pressure. It’s everywhere. Just leave me be. That’s what I say. Too much pressure in the world. I never pressure anyone. I’ve been in a situation where I had to but people never listen to me. I’m like ‘hey, get on with it’ in a really limp, monotone voice. It might be why no one listens to me. That or my thick Yorkshire accent.

So, what was I doing in the garden? I didn’t know at first. My dad was all like ‘get to the garden’ like Batman to the cave. I was outside in that cold for ages. It was like five Celsius at midday. I’ll be damned if I’m made to garden when the snow starts falling. I’ve played rugby in thick snow with a heavy blizzard going on all around me and I can assure I’m never doing that again. It was in PE (gym). It was below zero. Hated that teacher. I refused to do PE from that day forward. I actually refused to do PE on that day but I was threatened with suspension. PE, in this country, always has to be done outside regardless of the weather. I’m sure making an 11-year-old do football, rugby, cross-country running, Olympic Games type sports and other crazy nonsense in that weather is child cruelty. I don’t like cold. I’m fragile. Stop laughing.

We were digging channels. It rains a lot in the UK. A know, big surprise. Well, we’ve actually had below-average rainfall. I mean, in Yorkshire we have. Over in Cumbria, in the west, in soggier than a Frenchman’s excuse. I prayed it wouldn’t rain, and it didn’t. I had my big jacket on and my gloves and I was still cold. And moaning. In my head. I got on with the job. Digging channels to drain the water away.

I powered through a sugar low. That was painful. It was a Friday. Catholics can’t eat meat on a Friday, pretty much the only thing I do eat. So I was struggling. Dig. Feeling hungry. Dig some more. Blood sugar dropping. Dig some more. Holy crap, I feel faint. Dig some more. Ooh, here come the shakes. Put the kettle on. Dig, dig. Light fading. I see a light. Hang on, why do I see the devil? Dig. Breathing heavy. Call an ambulance.

So we dug the channels. Two around six yards long, another two around three yards long and one around eight yards long. Two people. One shovel. I’m quite skinny. That shovel weighed a bloody ton. And that was before it had a few pounds of dirt on its end. This went on, through the blood, sweat, tears and pain for two hours. Two hours. I could’ve been doing something important. It was a Friday afternoon. I was going to do what I do most Friday afternoons. Look for a job. Not find one. Comfort eat. I know, I’m terrible. It goes all to my thighs. I’m fat.

That was a good day’s work. Had a cuppa. Then laid some pipes in the channels to drain the water into a sinkhole we’d dug. But the pipes aren’t deep enough. We don’t have enough gravel. The wind is messing my lovely hair up. I have dirt under my fingernails. Oh no, there’s a hole in my jeans. I’m cold. I’m wet from sweat. I’m fed up. I want my yard long Toblerone. And a blanket. And a DVD. And some booze.

So we had to re-dig the channels. We managed the eight-yard long one and then I collapsed. Dig, dig, dig. Carry, carry, carry. Chuck, chuck, chuck. Repeat. Another hour past. All the time I was thinking ‘this is worth it’, and it really isn’t. ‘Oh’, my dad said, ‘it’ll be lovely in the summer’. Yeah – but that’s not until June. And it’ll end in July. And it’ll be raining.

So, I’ve had a moany week. Moany is a word. No? Well it should be. Moany, moany, moany week. Come to think of it, most of my weeks are moany. Moany. My new word.

‘To create a little flower is the labour of ages’, said William Blake.

Peace Out :|:

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