|Revenge will be mine|
We had just returned from Logan Brown, a quite adequate meal with a lovely wine (2007 Trinity Hill 'The Gimblet' Merlot, Cabernet - Gimblett Gravels).
Beautiful day, gorgeous weather. I thought I'd get back into weeding, and promptly ran another gorse thorn into my thumb. Out with the Acriflavine and on with the thick gloves, then the thought of revenge filled my heart.(I know that thoughts fill the brain, not the heart, but as it is an emotion-based thought, using the heart as the analogy seems more appropriate - ed.)
|16 Litres of High Pressure Death|
Out on the back of the section the bloody gorse had been clever. It was using camouflage. DO you have any idea how difficult it is to see a green gorse bush when everything else is green and brown? It was getting smarter.
Spotted the first one, embedded inside an innocuous little bush. The bastard, hiding amongst the innocent.
I should add here my criteria for deciding if a plant is to live or to die.
- If I or my beloved have planted it, it lives.
- If it is not strangling any of 1, AND it has no thorns, it lives.
- If it is not any of 1, and HAS thorns, it dies.
War is hell.
There were many plants which looked similar to young gorse sprouts, and got sprayed. Look, if the stupid bloody plant is going to look similar to the enemy, then that's its choice.
Then I saw the biggest danger yet.
|The Enemy in Spawning Mode|
One of the bastards had been pollinated.
|Gorse Fairies, Pollinating|
|30cc of Roaring Noisy Death-Dealing Vengeance|
It wouldn't start.
Bugger, out of petrol/oil mix.
Bugger, no more petrol in the backup jerrycan.
Quick trip to the local garage.
Quick trip back to home. (I'd forgotten that I don't normally carry my wallet in my (rather disreputable) gardening shorts. [image deleted due to extreme bad taste]
Back to garage
Fill up with 7 litres of
Back to command centre, make up oil mix, add to the Homelite.
Remove spark plug, clean, replace.
Success, the spinning blades gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
A few fluffy clouds drifted overhead.
A good day to die.
The gorse put up little resistance, its flower studded corpse thudded into the earth and was put carefully straight into the wheely bin. The remnants still in the ground were given a thorough saturating spray from the MacGregor.
I had won, this time.
It would be back.
I would be ready.
We must prevail.
Constant vigilance is the price of a gorse-free existence