Gardening (1957)

ANY persons misguided enough to turn their steps (or should it be bus journeys?) to romantic Wingfield Way in beautiful and invigorating South Ruislip (there is a let-down of a name if ever there was one) would see, in front of the second house, away from the apparently disused airport on the right side of the road, a garden..

I can hear you all saying "chiz, chiz" at this, but - draw near all you ghoul hunters - be careful not to make fingermarks on the "ickle pwetty poem" on the opposite page which was written by Little Lord Fauntleroy, though where and under what name he can be hiding I do not know, if indeed he is attending this school - in this very selfsame weed-overgrown daybed - can I hear your eager gasps, excited readers? - a window was smashed! as there has been in every other garden in the road, if it comes to that.

But, and here comes the crux of the matter, I have to work in that garden every Sunday afternoon if my father so decides; and I am forced to pull out those aforementioned weeds. Yet, get out your handkerchiefs sympathetic readers, all my hard work is of no avail. It is no use, I cannot control my emotions any longer, I simply must have a good cry; those nasty horrid weeds just grow again, and in a week no traces of my work are left "Oh, 'tis hard," to quote "The Bishop's Candlesticks." "Yar Boo! Favouritism!" shouts Syms at this point. It is unfortunate for my narrative that Syms seems to have a regrettable habit of shouting "Yar Boo! Favouritism!" but do not forget the moral of my little tale, dear readers - "If it is a job like gardening, it is not worth doing at all."

J. INGERSON, IIA