Saturday/Sunday 10/11 July
Time once again for a visit to mother. I arrived in Broadstairs around 2.30pm and decided to take a walk down the high street rather than go straight to her home.
It was mid-afternoon and a warm, dry day but there were not many people about. The folk of Broadstairs, most of them retired, like to go about their business early.
The fishmonger's had already shut an hour earlier and the butcher's window was empty except for rows of gleaming metal trays and strips of plastic foliage. (At least Broadstairs has a fishmonger and butcher, two of each in fact. Where I live it's the supermarkets or sod all.)
A new hairdressers had opened halfway down the hill - 'Gillian Kay of London'. How the owners of Hair Dayz, The Hair Cottage, Rootz et al must have quivered with fear when they saw the shop signage go up. The implied sophistication and cutting-edge glamour of a stylist formerly 'of London' would surely turn every woman's head and accompanying cut and blow dry. Not this afternoon apparently. The salon was empty when I walked past, save for a sullen junior half-heartedly sweeping fallen locks from the floor. Perhaps Gillian Kay of London's former location had been narrowed down and revealed her to be Gillian Kay of Lewisham, or Hackney and ruined the allure.
Further on I noted that Doyle's Psychic Emporium had shut down. They obviously had not forseen the economic downturn. I browsed the charity shops. In Thanet Animal Rescue I bought a butterfly brooch for 50p and a bamboo plant stand for £1.50 In the Cancer Research shop my access to the bric-a-brac section was blocked by three paunchy pensioners who were planted firmly in the aisle bemoaning the lack of consideration to others shown by 'youngsters today'. Unattracted by the temptations on offer in C-Wools (for all you knitting needs) or Plate Expectations (make and paint your own ceramics), I turned back up the hill towards my mother's.
My mother lives in a ground floor flat in a block of four. Until recently all four flats were occupied by elderly ladies. Mum's pride and joy is her garden which, despite her being 83, she tends to daily, only employing a gardener to mow the lawn and do the heavier jobs she can no longer manager herself. But all in her garden is not rosy.
From what I gathered from our weekly phone conversations, the hedge at the bottom of her garden - which belongs to Dorothy (next door, upstairs) has run rampant. Not only does it severely restricting her view but is preventing her from reaching some of her flower beds. Dorothy no longer lives in her flat, she became too frail. Mum's not sure whether she is now in a residential home or simply clicked her heels three times and found herself back in Kansas. Now the flat is unoccupied and the responsibility of Dorothy's daughter who rarely visits it. Mum said that she had put a note through the door alerting the daughter to the state of the hedge but said - without actually knowing whether the daughter had been to the flat and seen the note - that it had been flagrantly ignored.
Mum's descriptions left me wondering whether I should have arrived armed with a machete to hack a path through to her dooor. In the event it turned out to be unnecessary. True, the hedge was a little untidy and needed a trim, but that was all.
As I sat down for a coffee with her, I was regaled with her thoughts on the subject once more. There was another bee in her bonnet though. Ivan, the new owner of next door, downstairs had let his bushes grow too high. Never mind that the poor man was hardly ever there, spending most his time in Wales trying to find suitable accommodation for his elderly mother.
It was at that point that I realised what must be done. I asked mum if she had any garden shears. She had. I told her I would trim the hedge there and then. She was reluctant at first - it was too high, too hard a work, I was only a woman - it was a job for a man etc. I insisted she allow me to give it a try, promising to stop if I found the task too arduous. So armed with a two step stool, rusty blunt shears and a pair of rose pruners, I set to work. After an hour I'd made good headway, it wasn't the closest or neatest cut but it was looking better. I had to stop to get ready to go out for the evening but swore to carry on the next day.
The next morning, after a quick cup of coffee, I was back out in the garden with my through-a-hedge-backwards morning hair and no makeup, ready to carry on with the hedge trimming. I soon attracted an audience. First mum, who kept creeping up on me to shout warnings such as 'Mind yourself on those steps' or 'Careful with those pruners' - startling me each time so that I very nearly did fall down.
Next along came Lydia (94) from upstairs. Between them they began scooping up the clippings to put in the dustbin, all the while decrying the lack of neighbourly consideration shown by departed Dorothy's daughter. I, on the other hand, was commended for my bravery and skills.
I had more or less finished when Cyril (87) appeared across the lawn from the block next door. He asked if I wanted to borrow his electric trimmer (nice timing Cyril). I saw the look of horror and panic on mum's face. I knew she didn't believe I was capable of handling an electric trimmer without decaptitating myself or at the very least lopping off a limb. I politely declined his offer. Cyril and Lydia spent the next five minutes discussing the cost of stair lifts until Lydia announced she was going indoors to prepare her lunch. It was 10.30.
Unable to reach any more of the hedge and satisfied with my achievements, I want indoors myself to get a bath. As I took of my dress, shreds of leaves fell onto the bathroom floor. Those that were still stuck ot my skin floated off as I lowered myself into the bath, which I forced to share with mum's mobility bath seat. Wdged between the seat and the taps, I sat with my knees bent around my ears and washed myself clean. I winced as I made contact with the scratches that adorned my arms and chest like a self-harmer on a sad Sunday. The muscles in my arms and legs felt pleasantly tight. Were I to hedge trim on a regular basis no doubt I would soon reach my preferred dress size and give Madonna a run for her money in the toned arms stakes to boot. Alas, my everyday life provides little opportunity for such activities and so I shall remain soft armed and round hipped.
Enclosed are photos of the offending hedge, duly trimmed and the 'abominations' of the neighouring gardens.
