I once had a job which came with a house which came with a garden, a big garden.
I hate gardening with a passion, so I didn't bother with it. To give you an idea of the scale of neglect I perpetuated, the grass would grow to several feet in height and once a year - literally once a year - I would beg, steal, borrow or hire an industrial strimmer to attack my suburban Bristol jungle. One of the artier members of my youth group threatened to make a papier-mache giraffe head, to give the impression of the grass being even deeper. I wish she had got around to it, it would have looked fantastic.
Since then I've managed to avoid having a garden, which I'm sure is a matter of great rejoicing for my neighbours. The house I am in the process of buying does have a garden, but there are two significant differences: first of all, it's much smaller; and secondly, this time I'm going to have a wife. She will either take care of the garden or nag (sorry, that should read 'organise') me into doing so. No prizes for guessing which one I'm hoping it will be.
