It had been two weeks since I last visited my garden retreat, and to my disbelief, the neighbours had set up a greenhouse on my land, filling it with cucumbers and tomatoes.
I own a modest plot just outside of Oxforda slice of calm away from the city noise. Truth be told, I never bother growing anything; the place is simply my escape, a haven for unwinding after long days. I much prefer the thought of throwing some sausages on the barbecue, taking shelter under my wooden gazebo with a cup of tea, and letting the countryside air clear my head. A proper fence was on my to-do list, but it always seemed to get pushed to another time.
That particular Saturday, I drove out determined to do nothing more than sizzle some sausages and recover from a week of endless meetings. My neighbours were typical Britspolite enough, never ones to impose or pry. Only one, Mrs. Margaret Collins from across the lane, tested my patience now and then. Shed always quip about how I managed living without so much as a marigold, then natter on about her own plot overflowing with snapdragons and runner beans, which were, evidently, her substitute children.
Because there was no fence yet between our gardens, Mrs. Collins would stroll over unannounced, trundling about as if she owned the place. I always found it off-putting, but saying so seemed far too rude. Sometimes, Id pull up and spot her poking around my lawn, examining this or that with that proprietary air.
One day, I finally asked, Everything all right, Mrs. Collins?
Oh, yes, dear, she replied breezily. I was just having a look, wondering where I might put some onions in. You’ve so much empty ground, just sitting there. I thought maybe I could plant somethingit wouldnt bother you, surely?
Caught off-guard, I hesitated, not wanting to sound harsh. After a moment, I managed, You can plant in one of the beds, if you like.
Almost as soon as Id agreed, I regretted it. She spent half the day bustling about my garden, digging and fussing, nerves of mine fraying with each passing minute. My sanctuary felt invaded, no peace to be had.
Soon enough, it was time for my holidayI drove down to Brighton for a week by the sea. Coming home, I headed straight to my garden, eager for some quiet. My shock was immense: there it stood, a proper greenhouse smack in the middle, plus new beds teeming with seedlings. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. The lot.
I didnt need to ask who was behind it. Fury rising, I called my mate, Harry, and together we dashed off to B&Q that afternoon. We spent the evening fixing wire mesh around my whole patchproper English fencing, nothing would slip by.
The next weekend, Mrs. Collins appeared at the gate, cup of tea in hand, lips pursed tighter than ever.
Why put up this ghastly fence? she demanded. Now I cant even reach my plants. Suppose youre planning to look after them for me?
The cheek of it made me boil. That evening, I took down the greenhouse, dismantled every bit of it, and slung the frame and all the leftover bits over the fence into her garden. Since then, Mrs. Collins hasnt so much as given me a nod, let alone a good morning.
Peace, at last.
