Go chop my arse
I wasn’t in the best of moods yesterday.
This was very unusual as you know me- always bright and cheerful? Always looks on the bright side of everything? Always happy and positive?
Anyway, I felt like a bit of killing or something. Unfortunately that was out of the question, as I had loaned my favourite sniper rifle and the bugger was late returning it.
When I was a kid many many [many] moons ago, my mother had an expression that used to drive me nuts – “go chop some wood”. I hated that expression as it was a dismissal of my inner child’s angst and reduced my torment to the level of chance for a bit of slave labour.
It struck a chord yesterday though. I decided that the best thing to do was to do some gardening. I decided to mow the lawns.
Of course it immediately pissed rain, which nicely reflected my lack of a sunny disposition. In fact the rain made my mood somewhat darker and I chose to do something a little more violent.
Our “garden” is quite old. There are large areas of it that are quite inaccessible because of the undergrowth. This is ideal for birds and other wildlife who want a bit of privacy for child rearing or whatever, but it somewhat restricts my ability to reach the further corners of my acreage. There is one corner through which we used to get a lovely view. It also happens to be the corner over which my broadband signal flies. That corner has become somewhat wild, and where there were a couple of shrubs and bushes there is now a fucking wild woodland with trees, brambles and nettles.
I armed myself with my favourite gardening tools. First on the list is my secateurs. These are purely for cutting off any brambles that get stuck on my clothes. Then there are the real buggers – my branch cutters, my saw and my carving knife. I never got around to replacing the machete that somehow got buried with the Venezuelan, so I use a carving knife instead. It’s a lethal bastard in the right hands, and is very sharp. I can testify to the latter, as I would have very neatly removed a finger recently, but fortunately the bone got in the way.
I had a fine time in the corner of the garden. I hacked and slashed, and generally created mayhem. I got wet, but I didn’t care.
After an hour or two of this I got a wee bit tired and decided to call it a day. I still can’t see the view as there is a lot more to be demolished yet. My broadband signal is a good bit stronger though.
And I discovered that my mother may have had a point.
There is nothing like violence and destruction to lift the spirits.
Chopping wood is one of my favourite activities. Very satisfying when you finally split a recalcitrant block with a big fucking knot in it.
Do you find having a bushy beard lends you a level of protection against the thorns and scrapes of the brambles and such like? Many’s the thorn Ive picked out of hubby’s head of an evening after a days rhody/bramble/hedge bashing. I swear his head will go septic one of these days. Also, do you and Sandy have problems with Sticky Mickies? ie goose grass, not some nasty infection of the nether region. We have cocker spaniels and spend inordinate amounts of time combing the bastards out of their curls.