The Old Girl is starting to feel like home. I’m no longer going to the wrong drawer in the kitchen to find the tongs. I’m turning right instead of left to find the bathroom. I’ve unearthed the bandaids. Life is good.
The Builder and I have begun work on the outside. The Old Girl comes with a substantial bit of garden (see the last of the roses, left) and we realised pretty early (that is, day one) that if we didn’t go in hard we’d need machetes to find our way to the front gate come summer. So I spent two hours last Friday pruning the front garden. And four hours last Saturday pruning the back garden.
So. Many. Roses.
As I attacked with my secateurs, dodging thorns and trying to work out if I was doing it right, at all, I found myself remembering this post about our one rose bush at the Fibro. About how stressed I was about making the cuts, worried I’d kill the whole bush with one wrong prune. And this post about how incredibly thrilled I was when it all started growing back.
Putting in the hard work now, laying the garden bare, will be worth all the effort when the growing season is upon us.
I can’t wait for summer. This garden is going to go off.