Somebody has attempted to cut my hedge.
It’s a fairly ordinary hedge. Not particularly horticulturally distinguished, admittedly, but it’s been a loyal boundary for a few years, and I’m fond of it.
I’d accepted the kind offer to cut it with gratitude, and grateful I am still. It’s the thought that counts. However, after ‘the thought’ come things like ‘straight lines’ and ‘not missing big chunks of it’.
My poor hedge. It looks like it’s been dragged through a human backwards.
There isn’t a competitive gardening scene in the village, although there was once a cross item in the newsletter about people letting their shingle stray on to the pavement. (We know who you are). But I look at my hedge now, and am quite sensitive that people will point and laugh at it.
I had planned to do lots of work this afternoon. Now I have to do emergency clipping.