I was in London this weekend visiting friends when I received a call:
“Where have you put my sledgehammer?”
Uh-oh. I reluctantly told him the new location of his Weapon of Mass Destruction and sent a silent prayer to the gods of happy home keeping that his imminent sledgehammering was to be in the garden and not inside the house.
Turned out Chris’s undivided attention was in the garden; he was tasking himself with the final stages of destroying one of the mighty earth-dwellers of number 26, our poor, rotten, and now not really un-identifiable tree (one of three that need to leave).
And of course, in order to properly remove the tree stump, the small wall next to it needed to come down. Crashing down. All over the reasonably tidy second patio, on which I’ve carefully stacked my pots of kindling. Broken and battered shards of brick and cement flying in all directions. Scattered far and wide, turning our garden, or what I am kindly labelling it as a garden, into a graveyard of clay fragments and bits of old stump.
The stump got hacked as well. After the main part of the tree came down a few months ago, Chris bought some stuff from they internet to slowly turn the stump to rubber, under a plastic bag in our garden. The plastic bag was held down by bricks. It was particularly sinister, I spent my weekends avoiding making eye contact with the stump that was slowly rubberising under the body bag in the corner…
So this weekend was the slow dissection of that stump. And I wasn’t around to witness the tussle with the stump or the wall smashing incident. I got back after dark and it was only in the soft blue light of the following dawn that I saw what I can only call Stump-ageddon. And the wall-ocalypse.
This weekend the clean up starts. And new life will one day find a way…