The girls were taken off camping this weekend by a dear friend who recognised that this was the only way the little angels would ever get a taste of life under canvas. I could just about manage a camper van, if there were enough Cath Kidston accessories thrown in, but I could certainly never cope with erecting a tent or sleeping on the ground. For me, the whole point of the past 2,000 years of evolution has been to leave sleeping outside in close proximity to plastic way, way behind.
In the absence of the cherubs, phase two of the revamping of the back garden was effortlessly accomplished (mainly by my wonderful chum Landscaping Mum – naturally I spent the time in Homebase, with one finger on my chin, faffing about between different colours of gravel while she dug, hoed, planted, watered, shifted great bags of manure around with a flick of her wrist and generally got the whole thing done).
I’ve looked through all my pictures to see if I can stun you with before and after shots, like they do in all the best decorating shows, but unfortunately the garden was such a wasteland before that there isn’t a single proper snap of it, just the odd one of the offspring bouncing on the trampoline with a bit of mangled shrub in the background. Never mind, just imagine an unloved wilderness suddenly turning into this:
Isn’t it pretty? I am so thrilled, even though another friend who has recently been landscaped says it’s the equivalent of taking on a small dog, in terms of maintenance, grooming and general training.
Everything in the garden would truly be rosy if I could just get the little dears under control. They came back from camping very full of beans (literally) and disappeared outside. How lovely, I thought, they’re appreciating it already. But no. I may see the new garden as a little bower of bliss outside my kitchen windows. They see it, after a bit of judicious rearranging of my newly-bought allegedly Cornish cobble stones, like this: