During the last couple of weekends, I managed to steal back the odd half an hour here and there for myself (difficult, when the working week includes weekends and 48 hour days). It was well past time to tend to my ailing back garden, which has been pretty much neglected since last summer. The grass was desperately in need of a trim, as it was well over a foot deep. My mower takes cheap replaceable plastic blades, and I got through 24 of the suckers before it was close to respectable again. Of course, now the grass is a scorched brown mess, but I trust that some feeding and watering will restore it to some approximation of life.
This afternoon, it was the turn of the conifers that line one side of the garden. They’d grown by over four feet since last I trimmed them (around February last year, if memory serves), and many of the branches were beyond the realms of secateurs, and had to be attacked with a saw. Unfortunately, some kind person ran off with my stepladder last year (carelessly left in a corner of the garden – yes, if it’s not chained to the ground, they’ll run off with anything round here), and so I will have to wait until I’ve bought a new set before tackling the bigger branches further back.
I’ve now got a pleasant ache in all my limbs, blistered hands and scratched arms as proof of my exertions. Yes, I’m sure this is far more satisfying than relaxing on a beach with a good book and a cold beer 
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