Easter is coming: I have a few days off.
On Good Friday I will get spade out of shed. I will be looking at the huge expanse of vegeatable ground, still to be dug, which would normally, by now, be a forest of little green shoots pushing skywards. At the moment it is a sodden wilderness.
If it rains again on saturday, I will be leaning on spade, cursing the weather, and looking for signs of a break in the clouds.
If it rains on Easter Day, I won't swear, being holy day and all, but will be hitting inanimate objects with spade and batting Easter Eggs at cows in next field .
If it rains on monday, I will be throwing spade at anything that moves, especially the ducks, geese, fish and aquatic creatures that will be inhabiting the swamp by then.
If it rains on tuesday, I will be attacking family with spade and doing Zulu impressions at passing motorists.
If it rains again on wednesday, I will be bludgeoning people in white coats who will have come to take spade off me. I may well appear on News at Ten, brandishing blood-soaked spade at cameramen.
If it rains again on thursday, I will use spade to dig large hole, six feet deep and three feet wide.
If it rains on friday, my last day off, I will stand in front of hole, whack myself over head with spade, and topple in.
On saturday, with the sun streaming from brilliant blue skies, children moaning about the heat, and ice-cream vendors doing record business, my family will find note on spade requesting hole be back-filled and runner beans be planted on top of me.
On sunday, family will attend church for memorial service in my honour: the vicar will say how I 'lived for my garden'. Vicars haven't heard of irony.
On monday, just after the hosepipe ban has been announced, my work colleagues will hear of my demise, and club together to buy a memorial , which will take the form of an engraved spade.
Gardening is, basically, a form of madness: keep away from it...
Happy Easter
A.