Yesterday I made the most of the dry and almost zephyr-less morning to kill a few weeds. I filled up my 4 litre sprayer with my Round Up glyphosate clone (4 times) and set off to battle the creeping dock and convolvulus once more competing for World Domination on my northern boundary. To the East is the honeysuckle, kiwifruit and privet attempting (and failing) to get a toehold to regenerate into bloody great trees again. The South has creeping dock, grass and red hot pokers (I'm not allowed to spray the pokers, the Old Man would get pissy) and the west has wandering jew and baby flowering cherry trees sprouting up all over anything that doesn't move.
To the north east and south west come a different and specific kind - people. Apparently, I'm not allowed to spray them, either.
So, by the time I had lugged the sprayer around the whole boundary, applying it with
By bed time it was obvious I'd overdone it, if the pain in my left hip is anything to go by. Oh and my right leg isn't working very well. Walking is a bit of a gamble. A girl could be forgiven for feeling old but I'm too busy being decrepit to get around to it. I can't take Pams tonight - I have to drive to Thames tomorrow and the two are mutually exclusive.
Next week it's Tordon Time. Then Woody Weedkiller a month after that. Then finish up with glyphosate again so when winter hits they are already screwed. I do wish the Council would send their crew around a bit more often, though; spraying their weeds tends to take its toll but I can't let it go back to what it was.
I'd never find the plums in the long grass...
Everything is such a battle sometimes. I guess that's what challenges are made of :0)
Try the Army. Flamethrowers may not be quite so effective in curbing regrowth, but the satisfaction factor is sooooo high. Plus, napalm smells sooo good in the morning.
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