The grave in my garden

One of my dreams in life has always been to dig a hole, and instead of stopping at any reasonable depth, just keep going. This dream was possibly inspired by the notion of digging for digging’s sake – a reckless pursuit where you get very little back from what you put in. (Or where you take an awful lot out, and put yourself in.) Much like alchemy, but with mud. And my planned answer to any probing questions as to why I am digging so deep being simply ‘I can't hear you, it's a long way down’. Thankfully, I was able to stop myself while digging a vegetable plot, and there is now what currently resembles the grave of a very tall person, freshly interned, just outside my window.

Never has a pile of mud filled me with such hope for the future. Nor has it provided cats with such a wonderful toilet either. But they’ll learn. They won’t be expecting the electric fencing and barbed wire defences that will surround my carrots. Nor the delicately primed burglar alarm wired up to one of my closhes. And if a snail so much as slimes nearby, the mantraps will get it.

Well, that could have been the case. But me being Mr Lilly-livered Organic, means there will be no such things. The power of mind alone will be all I have to fight these difficulties. Maybe I can challenge the snails to a game of chess: I win, the garden’s mine. Perhaps I can bribe the cats with some purple sprouting and promote a neighbourhood watch scheme among them: you look after the plot, the plot will look after you.

Whatever happens, this is all a long way off just yet. From the grave that confronts me each morning as I open the curtains, I know something good will come – even if it is just partially nibbled lettuces.



My view each morning.