Blimey! No, really. BLIMEY! I mean, this is worth a full on Cor Blimey O’Reilly G’vnr bless me my lavlee Cockernee Sparra what can I do wiv a drankan sailor! Trust me, itās that momentous. Really.
You see, it hadn’t occurred to me before, but now I come to think back it is obvious. Like realising the fact that for you to be here your parents must have had sex or that your first pet rabbit didnāt really āgo home to live with his familyā at all but was eaten by your granddad, itās only hindsight that reveals the vile, slobbering maw of truth lurking and grinning just behind that thin veil of self-protective innocence we all wear like a second skin.
But nowā¦ oh god now… now I know the truth about my garden, I feel the clammy hand of terror clutching at my fundament like never before. Now, little things Iāve noticed over the years but dismissed with a casual āOooh, isnāt that interestingā or āAwww, isnāt nature cruelā finally slot into place to reveal, like some horrible, twisted jigsaw from the depths of a cold and calculating mind, that my garden is not some green and idyllic paradise. Itās not even a harsh but fair ecosystem based on Darwinian dog-eat-dog principals. Oh no, instead itās the vicious frontline battle in an eons old war between the forces of Good and Evil! No, really!
What first alerted me was GiGiās post about ants being unable to cross lines of chalk. Good God! Iāve read Dennis Wheatley. Iāve seen āTo The Devil A Daughterā*. I knows my Evil onions, whens I sees āem. GiGiās post led to me to think about other garden pests and thatās when things began to get just a little freaky. Salt. Slugs hate salt and we all know what salt does to the Devil**. Water. Aphids hate water which can only mean they hate holy water as much, if not more.
So, is this the proof I need to conclusively state that our gardens are infested with Creatures From Beyond Our Ken***? Frankly, I donāt know, but Iām beginning to think that if Sunnydale had the Hellmouth, I may have found the Hellanus and I think the only man who can help me now would be born of an unholy alliance forged under a blood red moon between a rutting Monty Don and the undead corpse of Alistair Crowley.
Check your gardens now. And take a witch or wizard with you (skyclad optional, but if they offer I’d say take a camera too… for the ectoplasmic evidence, you understand). Oh, and if you need any more advice, try Marvin as he’s 10th level and I’m only a Terry Toweling Padawan so can only deal with minor dread incursions such as noxious fumes (openĀ yon privy window and spineth withershins thrice whilst holding ye breathee) and broken vials (wearth of the glovees less the Safety and Health wench catch yee and fine yee boss).
Head Burro – salt and chalk at the ready!
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* One scene many, many times. Yowser.
** The answer being blind him, not raise his chance of a heart attack. I donāt think Satan has a heart. And if he did, the mere sight of himself every morning must have annealed it by now. A bit like Kate moss having to look at Pete Doherty in mid-orgasm.
*** I donāt mean two funny camp men. But if they did find their way into my garden, I have a bent dibber that needs some attention and a hoe that needs a good oiling. Oh yes.