Just once I’d love to say I sat down on a steep bank cutting back grasses and it was bramble free.
Nope. Not today. It’s not the gardening business, but the art of getting lacerated in many varied and fascinating ways.
I remembered my gloves this time.
And promptly wore two holes through the index fingers on the right hand.
My yanking bramble hand.
Don’t ask me why; I’m a leftie.
But it’s all fun and I have cut back the miscanthus.
I haven’t raked. Of course not. That’s the sort of beyond tedious job after the tedious job of cutting back.
And I started on the steeper bank where the eragrostis loom but I was saved by the bell.
Well, my friend Elodie came by for coffee and a chat. And then before I could get another row hacked back it was the turn of the electrician trying to work out why we have no hot water.
He came, he saw, he scuttled away. Baffled.
So more time invested in tracking down someone else. And the grasses didn’t get done.
The day was beyond gorgeous. You don’t expect a heatwave at the end of winter. I had the sunhat crammed on my head and I was even contemplating my wrists and arms to see if they were getting sunburned.
Nah, just red welts from the bramble lacerations.