07 May 2016

In celebration of Naked Gardening. (I think!)

World Naked Gardening Day is a recent tradition for the first Saturday of May, encouraging us to tend our gardens au naturel, a curious yet alluring notion in which I participated with gusto, diving into the great outdoors, fork and hoe in hand, wearing only a winsome smile. What could possibly go wrong?
Some months ago, the custom of vacuuming in my birthday suit was exposed after Susan caught me red-handed (and bare-cheeked) skipping around my apartment clutching my hose and crevice tool, so venturing into the great outdoors was surely a logical progression.
I wish this event were held a tad later in the growing season, then my neighbourhood might resound to cries such as, "nice cucumber, sir!" Or "impressive hollyhocks, my friend!" And "I see your gherkins are coming on nicely, gentlemen!" However, custodians of this celebratory date have dictated May, and we all know nature is not gloriously rampant at this time of year, in fact it can be decidedly shrivelled. But it's not what you've got, it's how you garden with it which counts, so...
"Hello there, neighbour. I notice you're trimming your bush, Ma'am!" I called. She was clipping her Forsythia and my double entendre was likely lost on her as she was fully clothed. "Careful with those shears when it comes to 'the lady garden' Ma'am!" I offered with a chuckle. She gave me the stink-eye.
Oh well, I myself intended to mark the day 'renewing my earthly bonds' and was sure others would soon join in. It was time to fire up the weed-wacker. I yanked the crank, announcing my presence to the world, and skipped merrily along the path to trim up the gooseberry patch.
Caught up in the emotion of the moment, the early spring breeze ruffling my seed packet, I pranced from spot to spot, relishing the gorgeous, trouserless freedom of the day. Bugger the gardening, I thought and for no reason other than sheer exhibitionism I sprinted the length of the lawn. Had this been a running race I might well have been disqualified - for 'flapping' into lane two.

When gardening, you can lose yourself in daydreams and it's easy to forget you are as naked as the day you were born. So when I switched off, and the deafening sound of silence descended, I was startled to see a row of grinning faces peering over my fence. I'm sure at least two had binoculars out and one was scribbling notes with a pencil, or was it a field sketch.

"That reminds me. Meat and two veg for dinner tonight," one remarked.

"Sausage for me!" cackled another. At that, I clutched 'Mr. Sniffles', acutely aware I was the only one marginally under-dressed (albeit impeccably manscaped).

The wail of a police siren; then a cruiser pulled up.

"Move along. Nothing to see here, folks," the cop observed.

Girding my loins, I galloped for my door calling out limply, "Forgive me, officer. It's all been a dreadful mistake."

Oh no! Did I get the day wrong?