Pick your own

As its a boys house, you probably think this is about noses. But it isn't.

When we moved here, the garden was immaculate...well when I say garden, I mean the hedges. The rest had been paved over. But the paving stones were scrubbed clean and had a bright and colourful shine to them. Now they have weeds and moss growing between them, and no amount of weedkiller seems to stop nature encroaching. The hedges were trimmed beautifully, nice and square and as green as green could be. Apart from when they were covered in red berries. Beautiful. And the birds loved them. But not long after we took up residence, I, for the first time in my life, tried hedge trimming. The result was brown hedges. I don't know why. I know I did it wrong, and I don't know how to fix it. The boy is silent on the subject.

In the back garden, one of the hedges that separates us from the neighbours was the victim of their weedkiller. I hope they feel guilty. It was replaced in year two by a bramble....wtf? But now as we move into year three that bramble has been dispensing balckberries like they're going out of fashion. They're big black and juicy. Blackberry picking is a sweet childhood memory, so I hope the boy enjoys it when he doesn't even have to stroll more than twenty foot from the back door. And I feel at last we've got green fingers. But we're not quite at the jam making stage.