Regular readers will know that I’m a huge fan of my wife’s gardening.
Onions, carrots, wandering down the garden and eating the tomatoes… Since we became more or less self-sufficient in fruit and veg it’s been one ‘this tastes waaay better than Sainsbury’s’ after another.
Oh… Apart from that time I was sent out to pick the plums. And foolishly worked on the ‘one for me, one for the basket’ principle. Touch of the runs. Well, more than a touch if you must know…
But – inevitably – there’s a price to be paid.
We needed to build a new raised bed.
“It’s given up,” I said. “Gone to seed. The sides have given way.”
“Yes,” my wife said, giving me one of her looks…
It had. Collapsed under the weight of cauliflowers fluffy and cabbages green. What was once raised was now level with the garden…
A delivery man rapped out a merry tattoo on the front door. I got downstairs to see him wave and climb back into his van. Our drive was now home to a large number of plastic-wrapped planks.
My mission – if I chose to accept it, and if I didn’t my wife would come home and find planks all over the drive – was to carry the blighters inside.
Well, there’s nothing like a hernia to greet the first day of spring. She came home and found them propped up in the hall.
“Take care,” she said. “Don’t get distracted thinking about your book and walk into a plank.”
And then she reached for the black cap. “I’ll need your help to put it together.”
We’ve been married a while now. We’ve reached an understanding on DIY projects. We don’t fall out like we used to. The evil spirit that once lurked in my toolbox – unaccountably nicknamed ‘Mr F’ – has been exorcised.
Nope, DIY projects where my wife needs help are now simple. She asks for my help, I agree – for the sake of my ego – and spend five minutes proving I’m as useless at DIY as I’ve always been. Then I’m sacked, replaced by one of my sons and the job gets done.
But here we are. Rattling round the empty nest again. Dan back in Leeds, Alex reprising Chariots of Fire on the beaches of St Andrews.
“Can you carry the planks out into the garden?”
…At least I’ll have matching hernias.
The planks are released from their plastic. I volunteer to put the plastic in the bin. Make a cup of tea. Do some measuring. Anything to put off the moment when I have to look at the diagram and accept that nope, my visual dyslexia has not cured itself and whatever I’m holding in my hand – a bracket, maybe? – bears absolutely no relation to the bracket on the diagram.
It does, quite adequately for 99% of the population. Carelessly, my wife married the 1%…
Eventually we sort it out. Not by looking at the diagram but by finding a photo of the finished thing on Google images. Each bracket – and its mate – needs fixing onto a corner support.
“Cripes, they’re sturdy.”
“I bought a good one. No point doing this again in five years.”
We started the long, laborious process of screwing the brackets into the Giant Redwood supports. “Blimey this wood’s hard…”
“Like I said I bought a good one.”
Quite. But it doesn’t do you much good to realise you’re building a raised bed that’ll almost certainly outlast you…
“The screwdriver’s slipping. I need a new one.”
She muttered something. It sounded like, “It’s not a new screwdriver I need.”
But it couldn’t have been.
Michael Brady is willing to risk it all
His career, the woman he loves. Maybe even his life
And he’s risking them for the man who nearly killed him…
The Scars Don’t Show is the first Michael Brady short read – a book you can read in an evening or over a weekend. It’s out today on the Kindle at £1.99