So it turns out that not only do my lovely French women know how to cook, iron, sew, and clean while staying immaculately dressed and thin, they also, it turns out, know how to garden. It's just so unfair.
Me, I head off to the garden store, buy some plants that look nice, stick them in the ground and hope that by some miracle, they'll still be there in a month's time. My neighboures here take a shoot off of a pre-existing plant in their garden, stick it in water, and it grows. And not only does it grow, it reproduces and grows. And gets beautiful. And it will still be there in 150 year's time when they then share 2/3 of said plant with the latest foreigner to the village. The foreigner's 2/3 will die in a month's time while the other 1/3 left will bloom and grow like mad.
It's just so unfair.
I'm trying to get the front garden back to a state of bliss this year. The dogs have been banished to their prison so now it's just the kids I have to fight with to leave the flowers alone. I've raked out the holes, picked out stones and wondered the origins of the odd bit of chewed up plastic. I've planted a forsythia and I'm plotting out a little path to the side of the house.
So far, so good.
Now, if only the grass will grow.
Trust me when I tell you that the grass really does look greener on the other side of our fence. Right now our side looks brown, miserable, and the only thing that seems to be growing is more rocks. Ah, the joys of living in a volcanic area! You have no idea how much I want to go and steal our neighbour's daffodils and pretend they came from our garden.
Me and my brown thumb must remember that it's only March. Patience. To everything there is a season and a husky to blame.