Turf war

Or “how I learned to embrace my lack of spatial awareness as a quirky personality trait”

Yesterday (for those of a Gregorian bent) was Sunday the 8th November.

For the benefit of the many Zoroastrians (of a Shenshai bent) who frequent my page I’m talking about the Govad of Khordad

Or as I refer to it “Welcome to Choresville, Population: Me”

Not satisfied with my recent bout of cupboard painting and choosing to ignore my clearly raging post-welsh game defeat hangover, my better half decided we needed a new garden outside our house on the pavement.

Two gardens just aren’t enough these days.

Picture the scene if you will. It’s just after 7am on an eye-stabbingly bright Joburg morning. The birds are still producing the same jarring melody they’ve been banging out since just before sunrise and I’m on the pavement staring at a rectangular patch of dirt, and 22 pieces of new turf.

In my hand I’m clutching a large stick.

I am coffeeless, bereft of energy and looking a bit like a semi-clean shaven Gandalf the day after Tom Bombadil’s birthday bash.

In short, I am not quite at my best.

I realize quickly that I have no idea what to do and so busy myself with helping Elias load some assorted tree parts (remind me to one day tell you the story of how I attempted to cut down a tree with a circular saw) into the trailer. Elias has twenty years on me and is still twice as productive. I feel a degree of shame.

Metaphorical tail stuffed firmly between my lower limbs I set off for the dump to gather my thoughts.

On arrival at the dump I get stopped and asked what’s in the trailer.

“Tree….bits” I mumble, acutely aware that last time I was here I may have accidentally put some rubble in the garden waste only section.

After a moment of eyeing my guilty face the supervisor opened up the trailer to check.

Satisfied that all chopped up limbs were of plant origin he motioned me to a section of the dump site where men in gloves were offloading similar stuff into a giant skip. Apparently the automatic grinding machine had suffered some sort of rubble related malfunction.

I set a new record of eleven seconds before British guilt kicked in and I helped unload the tree stuff. This made me feel better for a moment until I realized I only had three Rands to give as a tip for the thirty seconds of assistance I’d received.

Being no closer to actual design inspiration I set off to pick up a trailer full of potting soil. I may not know much about gardening but I can scatter poo and dirt on the ground with the best of them.

And so, an hour after I’d set off I returned with said poo-filled trailer strapped firmly to the back of my groaning Astra and the promise of adventure in my heart. Sort of.

While I was away Elias had busied himself with a coffee and three sandwiches and was poised for operation pooshovel.

After the trailer was emptied my wife joined me for a spot of stick drawing we called “the plan”. I distinctly remember mentioning breakfast at this juncture but the steely stare convinced me that a few more trailer based missions would need to be undertaken first.

It became apparent quite quickly that however big we made the flower beds we were somewhat lacking in the turf department. After a heated exchange with my wife around the location of a path and why stones would be far too expensive I suggested making the lawn area even smaller as I really didn’t want to have a third lawn to mow.

“To go with the two lawns that Elias mows?” she replied in a casual voice that implied impending doom.

Luckily, as I contemplated a witty response in a desperate bid to avoid further breakfast penalties I spotted my father in law scooting his way towards us on…well….a scooter.

After parking the machine we know simply as “The Flying Banana”, my gardening salvation surveyed the stick drawing layout with a certain gravitas that only true wisdom can bring.

“You haven’t got enough turf”

Winded by this dramatic turn of events I tried in vain to steer the conversation towards the path and the large oval bed we were planning in the middle, but the immutable fact remained – more turf would be needed.

After much chin scratching and general standing-around-in-a-wise-sort-of-a-way-ness we were in total agreement that “30 more pieces of turf would be needed”

My dreams of a bacon sarnie in tatters, I climbed back into the Astra and set off in search of grass.

The next section of events is quite boring and involves long, convoluted discussion about the fact the 33 pieces of turf at R6 each REALLY DOES come to R198.

So we won’t go into it in much detail.

Let’s just pick the story up again at home.

A home that has discovered the wonder of breakfast.

Clearly, managing to navigate an Astra with the turning circle of Jupiter in a hungover state finally made my wife relent and suggest breakfast.

Tears of joy still salty on my cheeks I set to the garden with renewed vigour and purpose.

It didn’t take long to realize that the thirty pieces of turf (plus three spares) was merely a drop in the ocean. I wouldn’t say that I was totally defeated at this stage but not even the joy of the breakfast roll could entirely lift my spirits.

Then the god-squad arrived.

I don’t wish to brag, but I firmly believe that the restraint I showed to the briefcased and besuited bible brigade was perhaps my finest hour. I conversed with them happily as they passed all the while making a show of how busy I was. When what passed for bible-babe suggested that “it looked like hard work”, I somehow showed enough sense to choke down my favoured reply of “yeah, but it beats the shit out of going to church”.

And so with the echo of shared false laugher fading in our ears we all went on with our day – me smiling inwardly at my improving social skills, and them smiling at the fact that I was going to burn in hell for all eternity for digging on a Sunday.

As I watched them make their totally-ignored-by-all-residents way up the street, Elias categorically confirmed my grass related fears.

“Eish! It’s a problem”

Fifteen minutes later I was back this time with 40 new pieces of sodding sod along with a business card from the turf-trader offering garden and lawn related services.

Forty five minutes after that we were tired, dirty and twelve pieces short.

And in this moment of despair like a shining bolt of monkey sick, the yellow peril returned.

Some old grass was found…a trench digging technique and watering system that made a rice field look dusty was devised and once again there was hope.

Filled with this unexpected joy I did the only sane thing – I buggered off to the house, changed into my swimming gear and chilled out in the pool, safe in the knowledge that “I” had created a garden (much like “I” mow three lawns every week…hmmm…)

My reward for this self centred nonsense came later that evening after we’d returned from dinner at friends.

No rains had fallen in Edenvale during the day and so I dragged my slightly drunken body out to the pavement with hosepipe in hand and spent twenty minutes spraying “my” handiwork, before retiring for an early night.

The storm that followed was of truly epic proportions.

The storm that kicked off just in time for me to have to set the gate motor to manual this morning was even better.

The storms that are forecast for later suggest “my” new garden may be spread over a variety of properties and areas of road by the time I get home.

Still, at least I didn’t tell the god squad about the sacrificial goat to bless the earth. Phew.