Dig!, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

… if you have a mini digger. While the legions of accountants cum Sunday horticulturists gently prune their herbaceous borders, and guiltily stimulate their organic compost, I spent the best part of an entire afternoon in a doomed attempt to home a single plant. My initial efforts to break the ground resulted in a bent trowel. As this was a clear challenge to my status of a real man, a no tools barred arms race escalated until I was forced to call in the heavy artillery.

Which if I had done so earlier – rather than losing a game of testosterone versus hardpack – I would have saved myself a nasty clout on the thumb whilst inadvisedly mating a hammer and crowbar as a ground breaker. So we called in Ken from the local farm, and spent the first ten minutes trying not to look at his accent. Mere written words cannot do it justice, but if you can imagine one of the lesser wurzels on Valium, having recently recovered from a mild stroke, you’d be about 25{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} there.

He was also able to run us through the history of the building in the same way Michael Beurk heralds a multi-fatality disaster. “The work started with much enthusiasm, but soon a litany of mistakes was putting the entire project at risk“. We quickly discovered our drainage problem was due to there being no drainage except some lightly dug in guttering pipes. Further careful analysis work carried out by the digger scoop showed 6-8 inches of rocky hardcore and below that, clay with a similar porous membrane as that of a Wellington Boot.

I suggested building tight but flowing singletrack bridged by some cheeky North Shore to clear the front door. Others, with mental ages well into double figures, unleashed a plan of such cunning and complexity, I’m calling it the “Montgomery“. If the planets align and sufficient chickens are bartered* then our capark collateral could be swapped for fresh topsoil from a local cider maker in need of some hardstanding.

This may take some time which leaves the garden sporting a ‘recently bombed’ theme. As I’ve been pulling out inquisitive passers by, I’ve explained the shell craters are, in fact, the diggings of Murphy who can generally be found tail down in one. I’m fervently hoping this is the reason his nose has changed colour to brown. The puppage has also discovered running around the woods which is his third favourite activity after sleeping and eating. However those two do take up 95{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of his day.

In the other 5{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2}, I found him successfully re-enacting the Andrex advert where the cute pup runs off with the bog roll. Murf carted a virgin plop stopper twice around the house before I finally caught him. Luckily it only took about 30 minutes to wind it back on, although the paper now occupies a lumpy space about twice the size it did. Except for the last two pieces which judging from his satisfied expression and evidence of paper drooling, I can only assume he has eaten. It’ll provide a perfect accompaniment for the eggbox he finished off last night.

If we get no joy with the digger, then I’m burying a handful of dried liver to a depth of about 2 inches and locking the dog outside. Although with the weather we’ve been having, it’ll probably cost me more to have the digger-dog treated for trench foot. Actually it hasn’t rained for two consecutive days here, and it was this very thought which cheered up an otherwise rubbish Monday. Until I realised I am required in Milton Keynes tomorrow which has somewhat blackened the mood.

I don’t know what is worse, the indisputable fact that this isn’t fair. Or that no one is going to do anything about it.

* I think that is what Ken said. I’m almost sure of it.