It's Sunday morning, I'm doing a bit of blogging in my dressing gown and listening to the sounds of:
b) Radio 4?
c) The hiss and bubble of the coffee machine?
d) The sound of a chain-saw, crackling branches and a bloke up a tree shouting "get out of the way, you fucking pillock" to his mate below as our neighbours' beautiful trees crash to the ground?
Top marks if you guessed that the answer is d).
What is it with blokes and chain-saws? Give them a piece of throbbing equipment (oo-er missus), a ladder and some lovely, mature trees that rustle and wave their whispering branches so gracefully in the summer, and what do they do?
They chop the bloody lot down, that's what. And that's not all.
Stimulated by the smell of petrol driven mayhem and the excitement of seeing next door's trees come tumbling down, thus rendering our lovely private garden open to all who (wisely) don't really want to see me sunbathing topless this summer, presuming we get one, and not to be outdone by blokes with bigger equipment than his, my husband took leave of his senses and massacred the ancient ivy which has been growing over the walled garden opposite my kitchen window for the past twenty-five years. Needless to say, I wasn't paying attention at the time or I would have sensed the potential act of vandalism which was looming and nipped it in the bud, so to speak. After all, it's an obvious equation that blokes plus power-tools, plus foliage, equals total deforestation and I should have been more aware of the potential scene of devastation that would greet me. Only Napalm could have done the job better.
I planted that ivy. I loved that ivy. That was my ivy.
Apparently, he did ask me, so he says. Or rather, he'd said "shall I give the ivy a bit of a trim?" to which I'd allegedly replied "mmmm, you could do, but nothing too radical." So he took great chunks out of it, obviously, with hedge-trimmers. And guess what? Now he can also play with his power shredder in order to get rid of the mounds of lush greenery he's hacked down. Oh goody.
As for the ivy, it looks like the victim of a very bad hair cut by a blind barber, high on crack. I am supposed to be reassured by the fact that it will grow back, eventually, but this isn't helping me at the moment. You don't quite see the logic in cutting it down in the first place, only to wait for it to grow back? Really? My thoughts entirely. But then I am only a woman, and I don't understand these things. Obviously.
In the meantime the power tools are once again stowed safely in the shed. I have the key. Fortunately for him, husband's off on a business trip to Italy, or he'd be sleeping in the shed too. Sounds a bit harsh, but frankly I am so angry he's lucky that this massacre didn't land him sleeping with the fishes instead the hedge trimmer. In the same way he's in charge of lawns and there would be outright war if I tried to muscle in on his turf, my message to him is if you mess with my ivy, you mess with me.