In my not so humble opinion, a man is a useful addition to the household. He has (often) better earning and employment potential (still!), he is strong, he finds time for hobbies and interests (how could that be?) and as a result, sometimes learns to carry out useful tasks that perhaps some women might feel less inclined towards (I’m being very careful with my language here and really, I’m talking about me). For example, Whizz has built wonderful wooden things in our garden: plant troughs , new legs for a slate table, a raised bed, a deck, and on the deck, an amazing and quite large pergola.
My vision for this pergola was to have it draped in plants and sparkly lights, but a friend offered us a free string of outdoor bulbs, smaller than indoor bulbs but definitely not of the sparkly variety, that were only long enough to form a V shape from house to pergola centre and back to house, so that’s what we have for romantic lighting. For greenery I planted a lovely Clematis, which launched itself with confidence from a very deep raised bed built by Whizz for the purpose. The bed rests on the picturesque, crumbling concrete that to my eyes is the main feature of our garden. After its first year, despite being watered, fed, and having its roots protected from the sun, the Clematis offered itself up to the universe and pegged out.
Now, this is about me: Firstly, at Whizz’s suggestion because he is a person who plans and researches a great deal, we installed water tanks into the raised bed. They have wicks that carry the water into the soil, thus keeping it moist. The tank only needs filling once a week so causes less work. The logic of his plan was unarguable although I had my doubts, worrying that there would be less soil than the plants needed, but I argued not. Given the demise of the climber, I suspect my worries were valid, also, filling the tanks takes seven times longer than watering the bally bed daily. This year, I stood over one of the tank openings pumping in water for ages before it dawned on me that it must have sprung a leak. Now we must empty the bed and so upset the established plants, and remove the tank – I plan to take out both tanks, actually – buy more soil, and start again. Why did I not speak up?
This weekend has been hot and humid. Not the best weather for me. Friday is our G&T in the garden night – when weather permits. On cool nights we sit at the breakfast bar on bar stools as if we were actually in a pub. Anyway, on Friday, Whizz and I grabbed our clinking drinks and headed for a shady spot under the pergola. I should point out that the shade was not provided by the pergola. Apart from it’s very unsatisfactory lights, it is still bald.
Sitting on the deck and looking at the garden from this perspective we see its better features i.e. not the concrete. After admiring the plants and lawn, which is not yet entirely brown, I lifted my eyes towards heaven and fixed them upon the lights. The daft thing is that since Whizz put them up two years ago, I don’t think we have even switched them on. When we are out in the garden it’s usually daylight, besides which, there is no outside socket so we have to run an extension lead. I mentioned this to Whizz and he realised that we could light them from his office window, which was open nearby.
‘Well go on then,’ I said as he sat there musing over what an amazing option this would be.
Fair enough, he leapt to attention and sorted things out and soon the lights were lit, well about two thirds of them, anyway. He sat back down, pleased. I on the other hand was reminded of how naff they looked and expressed my determination to finally have the lights I wanted. He, happily for us both, began to research lights. ‘I fancy some of those ones that you can program to show different patterns,’ he said, holding up his phone to show me a bright red, yellow, blue and green display.
But I have learned a little and was confident enough to tell him quite categorically that they would look tacky. We continued sipping and chatting when a loud cracking noise disturbed our tranquility. ‘
What was that?’ I asked (we do get odd noises in our house as it’s old so I wasn’t particularly curious or concerned).
‘Not sure,’ Whizz responded and we both looked in the direction of the noise, but as we could see nothing, we did nothing and resumed our conversation. There was a second crack and the shell of one of the few remaining bulbs dropped loudly onto the deck. It turned out the bulbs were full of water and unsafe.
Result!
Stepping further into the subject of men, or rather of me and men, I borrowed Whizz’s car to take some people to a Buddhist meeting. I used his car as it’s bigger, much bigger, than mine and would be more comfortable for my passengers.
The venue for the meeting was, as usual, in a private house. This particular house has a very steep drive with a small square parking area at the top, big enough for three cars parked parallel to each other.
There were a couple of cars already parked on the road and I pulled behind them, wondering aloud if I was sticking out too much. Meanwhile my male passenger had helpfully jumped out to investigate the driveway situation and ran back assuring me there was a space by the house.
Now, here we were again in that situation. I was comfortable, with my decision to park on the road, but did I say so? No I did not. I assumed that the man was wiser than I, so I pulled out and eased the car up the steep, narrow driveway, flanked by high walls. The other cars on the drive were parked to my right, perpendicular to my direction, and the vacant space was nearest to me. It was too tight to drive into forwards because another low wall, projected towards the car, parallel to the existing vehicles. I drove past the space and reversed in, ending up rather close to the low wall, which was now on my left.
As we sat in the meeting, I decided that the only way to get the car out would be to reverse the route I had come in by, in other words drive forwards and right, out of the space then reverse down the narrow drive. I was confident I could do this.
BUT, I made the mistake of sharing my plan with the man of the house. ‘Oh you don’t need to do that,’ he assured me. ‘You can do a three point turn; I do it all the time.’
‘Are you sure?’ I was dubious.
‘Yes. It’ll be fine. I’ll help you.’
Was it fine do you think? Not on your Nelly. I ended up with three men, bellowing different instructions and waving their hands in circular motions to explain which way to turn the steering wheel, or perhaps they meant the car, who knew, especially as one of them was behind me so his gestures were in my wing mirror. I performed an excellent one hundred point turn, displaying great self and clutch control.
As finally, we drove away, I couldn’t help laughing at the situation. After 50 years behind the wheel, I still believe the men in my life can do it better. A salutary lesson: Have faith in your own judgement. But thanks guys, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.
6 responses
Be proud in the knowledge that the naff unsatisfactory too-short lights had probably illuminated Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise in their day… they had definitely seen better days. They were also notably free! ???
And smiley emojis evidently turn to question marks on this page!
I didn’t name the donor in case I incriminated him. Didn’t mean to denigrate the gift, it was generous, just the location. Never thought of Tom Cruise et al.
🙂
You got an emoji to work! ?
I just did colon parenthesis