My garden is doing its best to resemble a desert. A dry, arid landscape begging for rain. Beg it might, but not a drop of rain is in the forecast. Or in the sky. I don’t see the point of it being in the forecast. We do need it in the clouds. And the dryness means I have to use watering cans filled from the outside tap. To spill water, in a deliberate manner known as watering, on the thirsty plants.
It reminds me of the time I was thirsty. My water bottle emptied because I drank all the contents. The day burned like a warm summer day because that’s what it was. And I ran because The event I decided to take part in, required me to run.
None of us knew to where. We ran around a farm somewhere in Worcestershire. For many hours. The cows got dizzy watching us go around in circles. All the running made me thirsty enough to drink all the water from my bottle. thirsty enough to drink the lot. Leaving me entirely thirsty, even though it was, in fact, Saturday. (Eh? A joke for the over-fifties, there).
I forgot what the point was, so I’ll return to the main article.
We are advised not to use hose pipes for watering the garden. They use too much water. While using watering cans doesn’t.
This is a point I contest with the vigour of a man who has used both and knows which method is the biggest pain in the ar— the part of the body that is commonly known as the arse.
The reason I contest the point is the spillage. Filling watering cans, you see, is likely to cause water to spill. And carrying water cans is also likely to cause more unintentional spillage. My outside tap knows this, but doesn’t care. Her name is Lilith, after some bloke called Adam’s first wife.
She’s a tap that works well, but only on Tuesdays. I have raised this with her, and she told me that all the other days of the week are the days when she is sharing water with the kitchen sink, the washing machine and a spaniel called Bob who drinks like a Victorian docker. Oh, and a water closet known as: “The Bog”.
Anyway, there we are filling the cans, tipping them over the starched pants, marching ants, parched plants. We repeat the filling of the cans and the tipping at least eight times. Meanwhile, the hosepipe is reclining in the garage, passing remarks like this.
“I’d have that flower bed watered in two minutes.”
“Yeah, I know. We are not supposed to use you.”
After two more cans of water.
“Blimey, you’ll be there all day with them cans.”
“I know, but we are not supposed to use you—”
“I’d have it done in five minutes, tops.”
I give up at that point. Because the hosepipe is right, of course. But we must preserve water.
Fear not, I have developed a cunning plan, I will eat more cheese and onion crisps. The plan is this: I will put paving slabs over the whole garden. Removing the temptation for plants to grow and demand water.
We will go from the “great watering” to the “great slabbing.” And then Lilith and José (the hose) can take the rest of the summer off.
Right, I must be off. Good night if it’s night, good day if it’s day, and look out of the window if you are not sure.