Silver birch catkins.
As the need to garden becomes more pressing, I push myself to weed among the rose bushes, set aside for cutting. The reward is looking back at what little I have done, and feeling satisfied enough to do more.
Summer, rather than spring, today. I rest my hand for a moment on a plastic water butt. The surface feels as hot as a hot water tank in a central heating system.
I think the tortuous reasoning that forms the basis of your second para justifies my robust declaration that I will never be reconciled to gardening, and that resentment will never be far away when I am forced towards that depressing moment when the spade sinks six inches into the soil, then stops. I can find self-mortifying labour at the keyboard.
But that's how I feel perverted though it may seem.
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