The garden allotted my end-of-Pineridge bungalow was postage stamp size, with a wee lawn, narrow flower bed between it and the fence, and a glorious double flowering cherry tree on the ridge bordering Johny Bichens’ field.

It was easy to maintain and just enough to keep my green fingers satisfied.

Then one summer moles moved in to the Original and Central gardens, with a family branch eyeing mine. I didn’t know that the garden department held a meditation to communicate with the wee furry invaders, but they did so after discussing where to ask the moles to place their hills: along the edges of the flowerbeds where mounds could easily be spread back onto the beds.

However, either because I wasn’t involved in the meditation or because my moles were hard of hearing on the inner, they did a sterling job of chucking up their effluent in a neat row parallel with the flowerbed but IN my lawn.

Aaaaaaaargh!

Amanda Haworth