Day 108: I Think Things Are Looking Up

Hot news. I saw a dead squirrel yesterday in the grassy bit at the end of my road. I thought it was just a happy fluke, but no. A friend in North London (which might as well be the Outer Hebrides and so therefore provides a sound Research Base), writes with the sensational news that she too has seen a dead squirrel, but this time lying limply beneath a tree.

Today Noel-The-Gardener did NOT finish my garden. Darkness fell, and he'd spent too much time telling me the difference between Manfred Mann and Manfred Mann and the Earth Band. I shall post the evidence tomorrow when it is Light, but I thought I'd end up with a sort of Changing Gardens stylee Zen Gardo-Fest. Instead I have no plants, a 6ft pile of bits of dead stuff, a television aerial, a Teletubbies football, three empty coke cans, 123 fag butts and 1.34m monkey nut cases. (And no, I'm not 'feeling the vibe', Noel. Not anymore.)

Which mad old lady puts monkey nuts out? Who thinks that feeding squirrels and pigeons is a good idea? It is not. However, from what I can gather, the squirrels are dying. With any luck, they'll be dying in their droves. I realise that I won't have anything to do if I can't stand by my kitchen window shouting "fuck OFF, you frondy-tailed cunt" all afternoon, but suddenly the pile of debris where my lawn used to be doesn't seem so bad after all.

Day 107: I Am Astonished By Noel The Gardener

Heavens, my garden! It is transformed. Noel-The-Gardener and I hid in bushes and looked at the garden from all angles. We discussed steps, mounds and garden benches. He has found the only spot in Brixton where I could sit naked and drink coffee (and then remember my towel) undetected, although why I would want to do such a thing I do not know. We ate lunch. I was Agog for an hour.

Things I have discovered:

1. Manfred Mann is A Close Relative Of His
2. As is a Bond Girl, because she could do a good Russian accent
3. Chasing the dragon ain't all that
4. He once picked potatoes in North Wales
5. He went to Harrow
6. He visits a grocer just for the spelling (brockley and crots)
7. He couldn't get Rod Stewart to No. 1
8. Most of us spend our lives running away from the truth about ourselves, which makes us Miserable
9. We are like coatstands
10. He likes endive dipped in aioli
11. His Uncle referred to Monte Carlo as "Mount Charles"
12. He buys all his gardening tools in France
13. My garden has "a good vibe" and now has "places in it for kissing people in"
14. He has a cousin called Prospect, who is Dead (and therefore has few prospects)
15. Marry someone who makes you laugh at least once a day, and twice on Sundays.

Oh yes.

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Picture 3

There has been some recent unrest about my naked form being used to adorn this blog. (Cast your eyes up and to the right, and you shall see what I mean.) Now I'm not one to offend (unless you're driving a 4x4 or talk to your cats in baby voices), so was reminded, in a sudden jolt this morning, of the Work Of Dave Shelton.

The question is, are monkeys of my own (well, Dave's really), liable for inclusion in Splendid Monkey Gallery? Who cares. And anyway, it's my decision.

So, for the more sensitive among you, here I am in my full glory, smoking a small clay pipe, eating crisps (plain Hula-Hoops), wearing a fez and drinking Absinthe (as I usually am), but in a perhaps more modest way.

Congratulations, me! (And Dave.)

Day 107: I Have A Gardener

My garden was very pretty once. Then I looked away for a month, turned back, and found enormous overgrown things, peonies lost in the shade of a mock-orange, and the tentacles of next door's murderous apple tree (which nearly killed my cat Monster one day), reaching high up into the sky and over the garden wall.

I had had Enough one morning. Looking out of the window made me immeasurably sad, not happy and soothed (as my cellar now does). But I don't know how to do gardening stuff, and when I do I break things and they usually die, or I forget to water them, or put them in the Wrong Place. Happily, later that morning I needed small nails to affix a coat hook to the door, and found myself in the hardware shop of the Tiny Chinese Man and his Silent Wife on Streatham Hill (four doors down from the Deaf Scottish Petshop Owner). And there I saw a card, with the words "Noel. Garden Care and Attention."

Noel is now in the garden. Noel is 58 and quite posh. He looked at all my books and my parents' wedding photograph ("I say! Look at those boots! I must say, I had awfully long hair once.") He looked at my grandmother's wedding photograph ("Must have been ... 1944? Look at that cap".) We drank coffee and ate ginger biscuits and talked of Empress Josephine and her 170 varieties of rose, Neil Young, the book he is writing with an illiterate Iraqi minicab driver, what it was like being the translator for Manitas de Plata of the Gipsy Kings, decking, and Elizabeth David. Then we took a turn around the garden.

"The thing about gardens is they come straight from the Manufacturer. The only living things are people, animals and plants; you wouldn't leave a dead body around, so the thing is to take the dead things away and see what's still living." He starts clipping things and talking about Monastic Gardening. (You say nothing, listen to nothing, concentrate and work fast.) "It has a nice vibe, this garden. You should be able to sit and think in it. And sleep in it in the summer." I raise my eyebrow. "No, look. You put the bed here (points at the back wall), and grow that lovely rose up there (points at the garden fence), and ... well, they do it in France."

It is Decided. I shall sleep in my garden in the summer, and Noel will make secret corners that you won't be able to see, but I will know are there. We are having soup for lunch. "Oh dear you, are you sure? You are kind". I love nice posh people, me.

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Picture 2

I return from another night being danced in front of by a twelve year old on speed ("What do you mean he was in Blur? Who are Blur?"), and wearily peruse my inbox. My mood is suddenly lightened, for Lee has sent a picture accompanied by the cryptic words: "I think I dated this guy". Further investigation reveals more; Lee tells me that her Photoshop skills "are to be feared and admired" (this much is true; she did something with a j-peg that rendered me speechless with admiration), adding only: "You should know that I am not author of this monkey. This guy is from Microsoft Word's clip art. We made t-shirts and we love him."

Who "we" are remains a mystery, but she chose her monkey well. He is indeed Splendid, and has therefore made it into Splendid Monkey Gallery.

Congrulations, Lee!