With a vegan barbecue and loungers on order, I have gone full garden tosser
I don’t know exactly when the tipping point came, but I have to concede that I have become a garden tosser. It may have been when I was sitting with my wife listening to details of the lockdown easing. First came the news of garden centres reopening, then that barbecues would be allowed, as if the government was trying to win a bet to make this experience as middle-class as it possibly could. I am half expecting it to announce a subsidy on sourdough.
Nevertheless, in our quest to exhibit hypocrisy of the highest order, after scoffing at these announcements we discussed how to make use of them. I have never been much of a garden person; my lack of coordination and excess weight made the outdoors a terrifying place when I was a child. I was forever fearful that somebody might ask me to kick a ball or climb a tree, whereupon I would attempt these things and provide a comedy sketch for everyone gathered. Similarly, my memories of my dad barbecuing are dominated by the time he managed to set fire to the barbecue and leave melted plastic all over the patio, while undercooking all the meat and poisoning everyone.
For these reasons, I have never taken an interest in our back garden. Obviously being a prisoner changes that, so we have been looking at ways of making use of the space. (And yes, I do realise that, for all my pointed comments about being middle-class, writing a Guardian column about how I’m using my garden might be the most middle-class thing anyone has ever done.)
First we decided to buy some garden furniture to lounge on, which we have never bothered with before. I am obviously a big fan of interracial relationships, but the most contentious difference of attitude they throw up is to the sun. My wife sees it as a warm friend that will imbue her with a golden glow, whereas I see it as something to shield myself from at all costs as my skin dries into a Ranga biltong. Our children get very tanned, so much so that one summer, my wife came home from the shops perturbed by a man who had ushered one of our sons towards a nearby Asian woman because he assumed he was hers.
Then there is the issue of buying a barbecue, with the knowledge that the words “vegan barbecue” would elicit mocking laughter for miles around. I would go so far as to say I will never invite my friends to one, because the level of piss-taking I would have to endure would fill the whole day with PTSD-level trauma. My strategy will be to enjoy my mushroom skewers with my family in private.
By the time I got to ordering my barbecue, though, I had become drunk on the opportunities that exploring your garden presents. On the phone to my mum, I suggested that I might be contemplating growing vegetables, provoking such hilarity that I wonder if any of the previous times I’ve heard her laugh were real. Admittedly, this was pretty off-brand for me: I had Googled “Things you can do in your garden” and decided that rather than focusing on one or two activities I might enjoy, I should attempt them all. I am looking to take the term “all the gear, no idea” into the garden for the first time.
The garden furniture, the barbecue and the planting tools all arrive this week. Hopefully, no one will accuse me of forgetting my roots. Right now, they’re all I’m thinking about: the roots of my potatoes, my courgettes, my tomatoes... just watch this (outdoor) space.
