I’ve always thought marriages work best when duties are clearly divided, with as little grey area in the middle as possible. Or rather that’s what I’ve thought since living with my husband (which, for logistical reasons, came after being married) and having to negotiate shared responsibilities. So for a while now – and despite the fact that we’re very modern in amost every other way – I’ve done most things to do with the house, and he’s done most things to do with the garden.
But a little while ago, back in the spring, I got involved in a gardening venture, and – lo and behold – there’s a garden full of flowers outside the window. Instead of looking out of the study onto a slumped concrete driveway and the back end of the car, I now look out onto a patch of cornflowers, corn marigolds, corn chamomile, corn cockles and poppies. I’m sure there’s been an extra spring in my sentences with this new backdrop to my working life.
We’ve had no end of people stopping to admire the view. And apparently I had a hand in this, or so I’m told. Gardening, I’ve decided, beats doing the washing and paying bills, and I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to realise that.