On the one hand I believe that anything is possible if you want it badly enough, yet, despite my best efforts, I have utterly, totally and completely failed to turn myself into a gardener.
When we moved in here more than 11 years ago, it was lovely, the grass was lush, flowers bright and ranks serried. Now, though. Meh. There are dead leaves, bits of litter and dog poo.
Sometimes I think it'd be better if I'd never tried anything and let there be wilderness and trampoline. Then my attempts wouldn't seem so pitiful in their evident failure. The 'veg' patch, the green cone, the herbs and the pots patently not brimming with color.
It's not as if there isn't potential, once you overlook the not very sunny location, the boggy soil and the neighbouring substation.
I have a fantasy of fragrance and dappled light, bright chatter and summer evenings... sigh. It's as likely to come true as me deciding that my life isn't full enough and I'd better have another couple of children... and learn to knit while I'm at it.
My garden is so bad that I only volunteer to take my turn at hosting the book group in the winter months so I can close the curtains on it.
I'm thinking of giving up the fight and letting nature do its worst, but, these days, it's so horrible even the weeds don't bother.
This post is the tenth post of NaBlogPoMo and was written in response to Vonnie's prompt:
Do you own a garden? What do you grow?
