Today we cleaned out the shed.
I've put off cleaning out the shed, partly because it's full of geckos and who knows what else, partly because the stuff in there represents so much time and money invested in me thinking I could be another Peter Cundall or Jackie French.
Piles of empty pots ready to propagate in. Bags of fertilisers and bottles of organic pesticides to treat this deficiency or eradicate that pest. Seeds past their plant-by-date. Shovels, trowels, rakes, gloves, hose connector doodads.
It all goes with the pile of barely read gardening tomes inside.
So much money spent, so little return. Rotting.
I thought that I wanted to be a gardener, but it turns out I just like gardens. All I need is an easy care yard, with the occasional spectacular flower (there are some of these sprung up at the moment that I'd forgotten about), a little vegetable patch, and a fruit tree or two. I don't actually want to be spending hours potting around the garden: there are too many fantastic books to read, and I have too many children to play with!