Heavy rubbish day. Or as it’s known locally, the council cleanup. No words strike more fear into the hearts of your loved ones, if you are a gardener with an ample shed and an insatiable love of junk.
I was left momentarily unsupervised today, and all the good work of a weekend of chucking stuff out began to go into reverse. I know it’s a sign of my hoarding pathology, but I really struggle to imagine why someone would ditch a barely scratched inch-thick slab of gorgeous red gum about half as long as my kitchen.
Here’s the only plausible explanation I could come up with: it had been used in the commission of a mob murder. “I know, I know, Vinnie had to go… he knew too much… but since he “went on holiday” I just don’t feel the same about that big chopping board…”
Another road-side acquisition of the last 48 hours (the coffin-sized item pictured below) also suggests restless nights and guilty secrets. I swear the pruning saw was in-situ before I even considered taking this photograph. Such measures may be necessary when “spring cleaning” for those of us who only have possession of an electric mulcher, suitable strictly for lighter duties.
All this “waste disposal” has perhaps been a bad influence, since today I had to do a piece of work. I got a place ready, somewhere nice. No need for concrete boots (or indeed blood and bone) just a very old pair of Blundstones and some hair clippings at the bottom of a hole. We had a problem: our new associate, low-chill Tropical Sunshu nashi pear, had to be put in the ground.
We put her in the ground, and we put her in a box. In that order, suggesting I’m no wise guy. Though I can say, hand on heart, that she’s gone to her narrow bed, to sleep the Big Sleep, since the box we put her in was constructed of not merely one, but two bed frames. Those beds may never have concealed any horses’ heads, but they were absolutely and definitely products of the waste management business, a business I should clearly for the sake of my family (and my shed) try to leave behind.