Dirt

All of a sudden the end of the year is here. Though there are still more weeks of school, and work, the shift has begun. We've a few functions coming up at our place, including Christmas lunch for our combined families and it's as good a reason as any to get the garden in hand.



That is not long grass, it's weeds. I'm not a keen gardener, and Craig is too busy to really keep our garden under control. Our modus operandi is to have big intermittent attacks on the weeds and then let them reaccumulate. It is not a very effective strategy.

Today I spent nearly five hours pulling weeds. It was 32 degrees and the cricket was on the radio. I don't really care much about cricket, but I like the idea of it. And just as the sound of winter is the distant roar of 'baaaaaaall' from an oval, the sound of summer is the relaxed chatter of the commentators on the radio, and the intermittent 'tonk' of leather on willow. In the summers of my childhood, when I'd come inside from the glare and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark of the house, the cricket always seemed to always be on the telly, with the sound down and the radio on. 'Who's winning?' I'd ask my brother and he'd explain in frustration that no one was winning, it wasn't that sort of game. Cricket for me then was synonymous with the absolute, unutterable boredom of childhood. Now it speaks of long lazy summer days with nothing to do and nowhere to be.

I didn't especially enjoy all the weeding, but it was very satisfying. There are large piles of weeds dotted about the garden now. By the end I was absolutely filthy. My shoes were full of dirt and my fingernails needed a scrubbing, though I'd worn gloves. It made me realise that I just don't get dirty anymore. Sweaty maybe, but not actually dirty, with dirt, the way you do every day when you're a kid.