Last year I talked about the peculiar events that surround my amateurish (It’s a different shape from every angle; since I tend to view it from the house, I only really care about what it looks like from that direction.) attempts at topiary.
This year was no exception – it started when I was sitting on the porch bungy-cording whirling electric blades of death (TM) to a hockey stick. I was on my third giant rubber band when a mortgage broker told me how nice the bush was.
Well, okay — but I hadn’t actually done anything yet.
While I was walking around it, frowning at the spot where I had taken off too much and trying to decide what I was going to do about it, a woman who I had never seen before walked by. “Nice bush” she said. I couldn’t decide if it was a double entendre, smacked myself for even thinking such a thing and climbed back on my ladder. While I was standing there trying not to sever limbs (mine — I was trying to sever the ones on the bush) an older gentleman that (the recurring theme) I had never seen before strolled by, nodded at me and gave me a thumbs-up. (Not that kind.)
But the real surprise — the record — was when a group of four complete strangers went by and complimented the job we (Ms. Rose was there but unlike me she was not a threat to herself or anyone else) were doing.
Imagine how impressed they would have been if it was actually, you know, symmetrical.
(Pretty close to ten minutes, even though my stopwatch is in the next room (actually, I lie — it’s outside in the car) and the last sentence took longer than the previous three paragraphs put together.)