Weed

The garden jungled about in the first sunshine for absolutely ages. Lenin and Rosa (tortoises with doubts about their gender but none on their political affiliations) quick-stepped into the patch of sunlight that had escaped from the forest canopy. We turned to our Leader, who had received a swift gardening lesson from Mr HG in the last patch of sunlight some days ago. Mr HG being hors de combat after fighting the stairs with both hands tied behind his back needs gardening help. As the idea of anyone laying into the garden without his all-seeing eye makes him jumpy we were a quiet party.

But not for long: 'Is this a weed?' Two linguistic philosophers paused to consider the nature of weediness. ' That's a special kind of mint you're pulling out'. 'But it's in the little edging hedge. It's become a weed.'

Right. Everything in the wrong place should get it. We set to. It was not enough. Should nettles (soup, poultices) in neutral ground come out? It was ruled no because no-one was wearing gloves and these nettles must have glowed in the dark with frills on in their virulence.

As confidence grew, and does confidence grow quickly in the confident, plans were laid for lopping trees, training climbers over arches, swinging hammocks, planting favourite fruit and veg.

"What are you doing?" said a voice from the limonaia. We froze. "Bring me what you have weeded." We left Mr HG sorting his uprooted friends from his uprooted enemies to put on the lunch.