The garden ran away with me, as I told you last week, but I managed to get on top of it, to some extent at least. I re-started the Tudor-era lawnmower and slashed my way through a forest of wild garlic, though that isn’t the problem. For all I care I’d have no grass in the garden. .I’d have rocks and moss and wild garlic and fish ponds. I’d have lemurs and sucking loaches. Cassowaries. Capuchin monkeys at prayer. Flamingoes, manatees and three-toed sloths. I’d have baobab trees and giant redwoods, cedars of Lebanon and Irish mountain oak. I’d have crocodiles, bears, bison and wild pig snuffling out my weekly supply of truffles, if I had my way, but sadly, I don’t.
I just have a garden, even if it is, to be truthful, fairly large.
This garden has hosted parties of 120 people and more. This garden has been the location for many a night of singing, carousing and friends huddling together under gazebos as the rain poured down. Fiery braziers, barbecues and taxi-drivers who decided to stay for the music at four in the morning.
It’s that kind of garden, not the other kind, all manicured and neat. It started life as a fairly wild, working garden, laid out for revelry, but it got a bit out of hand in recent times and I needed to get a grip on it.
Good. That’s done. It’s all cleaned up now, apart from the wild garlic lurking beneath the surface, ready to explode again next year, but maybe I’ll just decide to live in peace with it and save myself the bother — not to mention the ethical conflict– of using weedkiller.
To be truthful, I wouldn’t be too worried about the garden but for the impending visit of Charles and Camilla. They’re going to the Wee North, I know, and they’re also visiting Mullaghmore in Sligo, where Charles’s great-uncle met a violent end, and what decent-minded person could begrudge him that? To mourn a relative is the most human of acts.
But, you see, I don’t know where else they’re visiting, and I was just thinking, if they happen to be around Limerick, they could always take the spare bedroom in my place. I’d be happy enough to clear out the wardrobe, put new duvet-covers on the bed and maybe get the curtains cleaned. Maybe.
I’d even put new toilet rolls in the bathroom.
If Charles and Camilla want to stay in my place, I’ll be happy to put them up. I’ll introduce them to the neighbours, bring them down to the pub and make them feel at home. They can borrow the car when I’m not using it and if Camilla needs to run to the shop for fags, she can have a loan of my bike.
The neighbours, though, are the problem, because neighbours mean barbecues, beer in the garden and thus my unending problem: gardens. I was thinking it would be a great idea to tip off the cops about an arms cache in the garden. They’d arrive in a helicopter, dig it all up and I could sow new grass in time for the Royal visit, but of course, they’d also put me on some sort of terrorist blacklist and that would be the end of Charles and Camilla sharing a big greasy breakfast with me, complete with Clonakilty black pudding and proper, artery-clogging fried bread. I bet Camilla likes a big greasy fry and a big pot of tea. With toast and salty butter.
The other slight problem is that Charles and Camilla will still be here on the day of the Marriage Equality referendum, which means that if they’re staying with me, they’ll probably have to come into town putting up posters on lamp-poles. I don’t know how old Charles is these days, but he seems like a fairly fit chap, so he probably won’t mind me standing on his back while I tie up the placards, though I’m not sure if Camilla is up to the same effort.
I’m just not sure Camilla is the sort of lady who likes people standing on her back, and that’s the truth. But on the other hand, she does have that St Trinians head-girl look, so who knows? Jolly hockey-sticks!
One thing is for sure. The No campaign would be salivating at the thought of meeting a genuine royal after all the fake princelets they’ve been presented to by Ganley. David Quinn might pass out in an orgasmic flood of aristocratic sycophancy. David Quinn might even forget the anti-gay campaign due to excessive salivating.
Note to self. Call Charles now and see if he’ll talk to David.
Note to self. Make sure video camera is charged.
Note to self. Bring barf-bag.