Treed (like 'bushed' but more so)

8pm. Flat on my back under the apple tree. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get up again. My hands, torn by rose and bramble thorns,  look normal but are throbbing and feel twice their usual size. My arms ache, my legs ache.
 
B and I have spent all day clearing our embarrassment of a small garden and we haven’t finished yet. With their permission, and probably relief, we have filled both our neighbours’ garden waste bins. I have cycled three heavy trailer-loads of prunings and weeds to the recycling centre, and have another three loads ready to take when they open again. B has reduced a small dead tree to kindling and burning lengths for the stove we’ll use again in the autumn. I have pulled 2km of ivy out of the ground and dug part of a rotted futon into it (that was satisfying, finally getting my own back for all those sleepless nights). We can now see the small brick patio at the end of the garden that was under leaves and yew bark. The path that leads to it is also reclaimed from dried buttercups, herb robert, goose grass, ivy, rampant Japanese anemone and bramble. I thought I’d mostly vanquished the bramble two decades ago, with just the odd skirmish each year since, but it’s crept back in under cover of a sour loganberry I didn’t dare take out because it was given to me by a good friend. But both will go once this year’s fruiting season is over.
 
Right, time for a warm bath. If I can get up.



Thanks for liking yesterday's.