I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m relying on Google and brief conversations with my worms. So in a way, I suppose this disastrous day was inevitable. I should’ve paid more attention when my parents made me water the garden at home.
In no particular order:
1) My entire worm population attempted mass suicide by drowning.
‘What’s wrong you idiots?’ I asked.
‘Well it’s one of three things,’ said the worms (after I’d saved them from drowning).
‘I’m not telepathic,’ I said (still mad).
‘It’s either too wet, too hot or to acidic in here.’
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘God knows,’ said the worms. ‘We’re just acting on instinct.’
Bloody worms, I thought.
2) Epic fail on guerilla gardening.
I took the stolen mint from its jar of water and put it in sandy soil. A couple of hours later it was as shrivelled as a steroid-users scrotum. I’ve now put it back in the water, but it’s in a bad way.
3) I read this great article on ‘forever’ spring onions.
Place onions in a jar with water and put somewhere sunny. Chop tops as needed and they’ll grow back.
WARNING: taking spring onions from dark fridge to 85F and full sun will cause extreme droopiness and wilting. I’ve brought them inside but they still look sad.
10 days of chickens and still no eggs. I can cope with this; they need time to adjust.
The real problem: 10 days of chickens and they don’t go in their coop at night. Instead they roost in a bush near the fence. I was coping with this also, until tonight.
Tonight all chickens were in the bush. I tried to pick them up and put them to bed (as usual). First Lucy leapt into the main garden and hit the panic button (Lucy is very sensitive). Lucky for Lucy she trapped herself against the chicken fence and a tree and I caught her easily.
‘What were you thinking?’ I asked.
Straight in with the silent treatment. I put her in the coop and went to get Spacey.
Spacey was more devious. She leapt into the neighbouring garden, which is actually an empty lot. I had to climb a bramble ridden fence and chase her around. I took my top off to use as a net and the mosquitos swarmed my pale British flesh. Spacey made a run for the road.
Game over, I thought.
But she cut under some bushes and into our front garden. I climbed the spiky fence again, opened the garden gate, and persuaded Spacey back into her enclosure.
‘Bloody hell, Spacey,’ I said.
Zip. Nada. Nothing.
The worms wont shut up and the chickens wont say a word.