I fancied a bit of a break from enormous, insoluble, distressing national problems, so I’ve been concentrating on the garden and the natural world, which can take up most of my time, if I let it.
It’s a mixture of wild and unnatural outside the back door: buddleias, butterflies, rampaging weeds, raspberries and grasses, a rather overgrown pond, grapes and bananas – yes, banana fruits in north London! Then there are the frogs, dogs, and the tortoise, recently returned from a stay with the Daughter, discombobulated by the change of venue. So that means feeding, watering, weeding, pruning, staring at flora and fauna. Perhaps a bit Fotherington-Thomas. And I am trimming the front privet hedge into a bunny shape. But why not? We all need a laugh.
“And you’re not seeing a psychiatrist?” asks my so-called friend, Fielding, harsh as ever. No, but clearly you can never get away from sneering, arguments and criticism. Not everyone is as keen on the encouragement of weeds, frogs and foxes, and the reintroduction of beavers, lynxes and wolves as I am.
The National Trust hardly dares say “rewilding” out loud. I’ve just heard that the local green parakeets may be culled, and around here, as in most cities, I notice that foolish residents have been paving over their front gardens, increasing flood risk, and enraging me as I walk around the block.
Even a politician, who should know better, has filled his nearby front garden with dull stone slabs, typically turning what could be mininature reserve into barren wasteland. I’m not unreasonable. I’m not asking for wild-boar and ponies roaming around town – just the odd buddleia and bit of long grass.
And before someone starts droning on about whether or not dogs and tortoises should be kept as pets at all, let me tell you that the tortoise was a gift and the dogs were rescued from the heartless pet trade.
Not that I am a saint, of course. I have murdered snails in my time. But wherever one turns, there is some moral dilemma or other. You can never just take care of your own garden.
