Introibo Ad Altare (Aut Hortum) Dei...

...I may have mentioned this before, but whereas you will find me a great fan of gardens per se - places in which to sit at ease on a fine summer's day (though not this dank year clearly), pondering the wonder of creation and the perfidy of the created [see previous], armed only with a largish Pimms and a languid mien while one simply is not does - the act of gardening itself has no personal appeal in the slightest.

Sadly, of course, if one has the one - a necessary prerequisite indeed for being at ease in one, one not being able totally to relax in another's ("More tea Vicar" is not a myth I can avow!) - yet lacks the spare change of upwards of a couple of hundred a month to employ some local ferret of a fellow to lean heavily on a hoe whilst not quite managing more than the odd swipe at a weed per hour, despite - or perhaps because - said ferrety fellow is paid more than handsomely by that very same hour - one is forced to defend against ever-threatening chaos (a good working definition of a garden for sure) by deploying any spare time a-hacking and a-hoeing oneself until the back is bowed, the spirit fails and a good lie down the only salve.

This summer having been as frantic as it has been wet, opportunities between monsoon-esque downpours to leg it into the menacing jungle that is our portion of Eden, with weapons of mass destruction to hand for culling the unwanted growth - which is all one really ever contributes - have been few. Too few by far in fact, for though one can give thanks and praise for not having to buckle down this particular freeish yet sodden day to a-mowing or a-chopping, 'tis but a short-term gain for a long term loss.

The Psalmist may have the view that leaves, as grass, will wither in the wind, etc., all by themselves; but clearly King David was too burdened with outdoor servants ever to have noticed the extended human effort required to assist natural forces of entropy. Nor indeed can one attempt the noble Quentin Crisp line on indoor detritus ("Leave the dust for five years and it will get no worse").

That was tried with the hedge for some six years, but the wretched thing kept on growing, refusing rankly to comply with the lawful command of homeostasis and reach some optimum size and no more. Eventually the whole thing was curved over like some great green surfing wave - quite picturesque in its way perhaps but earning an episcopal rebuke for some strange yet of course compelling reason.

Anyway, Canon Pewter was over for the weekend and bless the old salt entirely volunteered to take all Church jankers for the duration, despite being officially retired. "Like to keep the brain ticking over," he offered as an excuse. A worthy and a fine sentiment - not to mention most welcome - though am not sure that in his particular case there might not be rather too much tock these days and not quite the needed balancing amount of tick, for Mildred simply had to pop round after the Morning Service to enquire whether we had gone completely over to Rome just yet, and on being asked by H why the question replied that she [Mildred] had had to assume we must have done, as why else permit a pure priest of a fellow to say the full Tridentine Mass before the assembled and impressed if stunned flock for whom Latin of any kind is a closed book and a cause for some fright.

Ah! A bit tricky that one and deserving of a fulsome answer. Mercifully though I was not in the required position to give it to the difficult satisfaction of Mildred as, Pewter in charge, I had been dispatched to the farthest vast clump of long-neglected wilderness that was our back rockery to get stuck in - by H of course, who positively insisted at breakfast that this must be so; who lurked even over the Sunday sausages with shears in hand as if to make sure there could be no mistaking her meaning or her intention. (When ever was there thus!)

Blowed then if I was to return from this arduous exile merely to be harangued by Mildred. Weeds may not be good company, but they do have the singular vantage - shared by the entire vegetative world - of soulful silence, most quite unlike Mildred when fully bent on an extended rant.

H having imposed thus on me, H could jolly well come up with some satisfactory rationale for Canon Pewter's liturgical anomaly. As and when - or perhaps more fittingly if and when - the garden is returned to its pre-lapsarian pristine condition I will venture in to ask her [H] what excuse she gave, and then later check with Pewter what on earth or by Heaven he thought he was doing!

But first this next weed. A good long lean on the hoe required first for this beauty I can tell!