Tales from the Brothers Grim and Grimmer - Reclaiming the Lost Gardens of Electrofried

The second in a series of ongoing exchanges between my brother and I.  Hope you enjoy, and if you do please leave a comment at the end by clicking on the red high-lighted, 'No comments' link.

Dear Bruce,

it is with aching limbs and stiffened back that I squat uncomfortably beside the family computer tonight, a small tot of something amber and warming close at hand to dull the pain.

The rewards of retirement

Retirement brings many rewards, not least of which is free rein to make good those things long neglected during decades of gainful employment.  In my case, top of the list come the grounds that surround the estate.  Several years of neglect mean there’s a veritable jungle out there to be tamed, but lurking deep beneath the unchecked trees and matted vegetation lie the legendary, 'Lost gardens of electrofried'.

The first cut is the deepest

A preliminary survey at the start of the year discloses a faint tracery of pathways and secret lichen-encrusted coves just ripe for discovery.  I summon up my courage and with loins duly girded for battle …. I get out the telephone directory.  It’s time to call in the chainsaw crew.

The Terrible Twins arrive at the end of January. Swarthy and soil-encrusted they brandish aloft ‘the monster’, a truly terrifying instrument garlanded with sharp, pointy teeth that glint menacingly in the early morning sun. It resembles nothing so much as a carelessly discarded out-take from Tobe Hooper’s cult gore-fest, 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre'. Tea is brewed, plans are made.

Three days later the Terrible Twins pack away 'the monster’ and depart, the fruits of their full-frontal assault now languishing in several over-flowing skips at the Green Waste section of our nearby Council recycling centre.  Phase One accomplished, the full extent of the work required to restore the grounds to their former glory now becomes apparent.

There’s an ancient wall to be pinned safely upright, clay-baked borders to be dug, woody shrubs to be pruned vigorously, general deep-rooted weedery to be removed and various plants to be lifted, divided and re-sited.

Giant meccano

The builder is next on the scene. Armed with little more than a dog-eared note-pad and a fraying tape-measure he has a faintly disturbing habit of ‘tut-tutting’ beneath his breath each time he surveys the crumbling brickwork.  He drives up to the House of electrofried a few weeks later, axles sagging, with an impressive cargo of heavy duty steel-work on board.

Painstakingly the pieces of this giant meccano set are bolted into place, welded together and daubed with a rather fetching red-lead mixture that must surely fall foul of several chapters of EU Health & Safety legislation. Phase Two accomplished - the wall is restored!

The perils of property ownership

It’s at this point my dear wife and I conduct a second survey of the grounds. We glance knowingly at each other then look back to the small green hut adjacent to our newly refurbished wall. It’s the treasured Wendy House of darling teenygoth, sadly but unsurprisingly no longer in use now she's achieved the age of majority.  It has to go.

Adverts are placed on Facebook prompting an instant and somewhat vociferous response from our University-dwelling daughter. We are left in no doubt that her last remaining hope of escaping student debt and becoming a proud property owner in her own right has now been dealt a bitter, terminal blow. We remain unconvinced, but deliver the spoils of the sale to her safe-keeping by way of recompense.

Doubtless the three crisp ten pound notes will go some way to securing a deposit on a fresh abode come the end of her studies.  Alternatively, they may just be blown on cake and stickily sweet alcoholic beverages of uncertain vintage.

Negotiating the maze

We move on. The replacement for the Wendy House arrives shortly after - a spanking new lead-lighted gazebo constructed on the recently vacated site. Regrettably, its compact but welcoming interior requires furnishing so my dear wife drags me kicking and screaming to the camper-van for a trip to a certain well-known Swedish furniture warehouse.

For what seems like an eternity we negotiate the endless maze of tastefully restrained Scandinavian interior decor before we emerge, blinking into the light, with two basket chairs and a small table upon which I fully intend to rest my G&T (with strong lager chaser) come the summer.  Small recompense I feel.

Dig it baby!

And so to Phase Three, which continues to occupy our attentions.

It is truly amazing just how long it takes to clear naught but a meager square yard of hard baked, weed infested ground, but this is my sad lot until such time as the job is done.  The ex-convicts exported in their droves to the land of our Antipodean cousins surely fared better than this!!

Yours in some discomfort,

Simon