The task is bigger than Christmas. Bigger even than Africa. But smaller than a 32 tonne truck. And definitely smaller than a year of physio.
I mean, how hard can it be tackling a few brambles, some towering roses and several feral holly trees? When it has rained every weekend for months? And it took two weeks to realise there was actually a shed in there somewhere?
And while the vines grow ever taller, the great allotment conqueror is also ensconced in at least five other hobbies (read diversionary tactics) at the same time. These include, in no particular order of importance: weekly private Spanish lessons: Fisherrow Yacht Club Committee meetings; knitting nights; vociferous reading; twice weekly swimming; and about 5 hours a day of Radio 4. Oh, and of course there's work to do too...
No doubt a psychiatrist would have a bit to say about all this avoidance stuff. Something about replacing two wheels with something more manageable; and providing visible evidence of achievement. This is not far off the truth. And it is worth considerable more examination. Later. I'm far too busy at the moment. Whatever the psycho-babble, its all getting very confusing. And thorny. I haven't managed to knit a solution for the brambles yet - instead razing them to the ground with a flamethrower in a pique of must-seize-control-of my-life garden rages.
The Yacht Club Committee speaks English, not Spanish (much to my disappointment). And the Spanish teacher alas, is not fluent in the art of Day Skipper Theory and parallel rulers. However, it does all keep the scary stuff at bay. At least for the time being. At least until I have to face it head on with the psychologist.
Whether or not the diversionary tactics are good for my long term mental health remains to be seen. Even if not, at least I'll be considerably more learned at the end of it, and I'll also have grown a few onions and mastered the bowline and the half hitch... Which means that, taking the new ironing board into account, my life will indeed be complete. That is, of course once I've learnt the ancient art of flame eating...
I mean, how hard can it be tackling a few brambles, some towering roses and several feral holly trees? When it has rained every weekend for months? And it took two weeks to realise there was actually a shed in there somewhere?
And while the vines grow ever taller, the great allotment conqueror is also ensconced in at least five other hobbies (read diversionary tactics) at the same time. These include, in no particular order of importance: weekly private Spanish lessons: Fisherrow Yacht Club Committee meetings; knitting nights; vociferous reading; twice weekly swimming; and about 5 hours a day of Radio 4. Oh, and of course there's work to do too...
No doubt a psychiatrist would have a bit to say about all this avoidance stuff. Something about replacing two wheels with something more manageable; and providing visible evidence of achievement. This is not far off the truth. And it is worth considerable more examination. Later. I'm far too busy at the moment. Whatever the psycho-babble, its all getting very confusing. And thorny. I haven't managed to knit a solution for the brambles yet - instead razing them to the ground with a flamethrower in a pique of must-seize-control-of my-life garden rages.
The Yacht Club Committee speaks English, not Spanish (much to my disappointment). And the Spanish teacher alas, is not fluent in the art of Day Skipper Theory and parallel rulers. However, it does all keep the scary stuff at bay. At least for the time being. At least until I have to face it head on with the psychologist.
Whether or not the diversionary tactics are good for my long term mental health remains to be seen. Even if not, at least I'll be considerably more learned at the end of it, and I'll also have grown a few onions and mastered the bowline and the half hitch... Which means that, taking the new ironing board into account, my life will indeed be complete. That is, of course once I've learnt the ancient art of flame eating...
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