The smells of dynamic lifter
and month old hay are wafting about me still. Those damned roses had better
do something spectacular after yesterday's work but, if they don't,
well, I'll survive, I suppose. Prior to buying this little place in Thirroul
we rented a semi in a leafy Stanmore street, which also had a back yard
of sorts, but that part of my brain attuned to gardening had only been
briefly awoken and was limited to planting Jasmine and Ivy - two of the
hardiest creepers ever invented. Before that, our flat in Annandale had
a back yard but it was a shared thing and it looked like too much work
to do anything in - it did have a fig tree, but I hate figs. Earlier places
in Newtown (a flat above that huge 5 way intersection), Surry Hills (a
small terrace best known as the place where two of the backpacker murder
victims lived briefly) and Central (where the backyard was always filled
with the smells of the Chinese ducks drying on the clothes line next door)
were hardly inducive to a green thumb. And, at home in Sydney's Carlton,
Mum and Dad had a vege patch of sorts that almost constantly seemed to
grow either tomatoes or potatoes (with a few beans thrown in for variety).
But, as well, I was a callow youth, prone to laying in bed for hours at
a time, listending to weird music. I must admit that I'm not the best gardener
that ever lived - my greater love is for chopping things down rather than
planting and weeding but I'm proud of my back and side and front yards
- you'd just better believe it.
