Gardening is all a load of manure

There are two things I do not do: I do not paint, and I do not garden. Ever. The result is that the gardening chores have become the sole responsibility of Mrs Toerien.

Now, even though she loves to potter around in the soil every now and then and has quite a flair with plants, the bulk of the gardening is done by the garden service.

They come, they mow, they go. Quick and efficient.

But with spring in the air and the neighbours giving their gardens a thorough make-over, it was decided that some extra effort would be made on our little plot. Not just to keep up with the proverbial Joneses, but because what was once a beautiful green lawn had deteriorated over the years to now resemble a giant sand pit.

So, being the intrepid amateur horticulturalist, Mrs Toerien decided the first step would be to feed the soil.

I was pondering the idea and was about to say: “There’s a special on compost at Pre…”, when I was rudely interrupted by not one, but two tipper trucks emptying their load in our driveway.

Obviously, Mrs Toerien doesn’t let grass grow under her feet, so to speak.

It wasn’t necessary to ask what they dumped. The smell was a dead give-away.

Ten cubic meters of manure. Chicken manure. Wet.

Count your blessings that there are no words to describe the smell. Suffice to say it was so bad, even my dog has not been outside since this ordeal started.

There were mutterings about letting the manure dry out and I’m sure I heard the words “smell” and “three weeks”. But I was in shock and the tipper drivers were in a hurry.

My late grandmother was a firm believer in sugar water to combat the effects of shock, but I decided something much stronger was needed. By the time I gulped down my fourth medicinal measure, Mrs Toerien was three steps ahead. “It’s not so bad,” she said, obviously already in denial.

In the months to come, I’m sure our lawn will be the envy of the street. But for now, I want my sand pit back.