So one of the best things about my new place (except the absence of women selling themselves for sex in my basement) is the fact I have my own back garden.
I can not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, exactly how thrilled I am to hang out my own pants on my own washing line (Ok. It's nae a washing line. It's a whirly. Do I need to do a translation of whirly for the non-Scots reading this? or is a "Whirly" self explanatory?)
Not only can my pink and black starred goth knickers flap around innocently in the breeze of a sunny afternoon without some punter nicking them, but I can actually do stuff in the back garden!
So far this has included:
1) Going round it with a trowel flinging dog shit over the fence at the bottom into the field-of-mystery beyond. This was more fun than it sounds. It felt like I was playing Lacrosse. Not that I went to a posh school, ken. My school was more about violently knocking divits out of each others ankles with the knackered old hockey sticks... or I remember the time we went cross country running and all sat in a ruined old house watching some of the boys sniffing poppers. Ah them were the happy auld days.
2) Filling in the holes dug by said dog. This involved a bag of compost and a bag of grass seed and a nice bottle of Cava on a Sunday afternoon.
3) the purchasing of plastic daisies. I will never live up to the diorama of Deeside being reenacted up the road a bit, complete with plastic Bill and Ben made to look like Victoria and Billy Connelly and a simple looking Gnome ... but the plastic daisies are my admission to the world that it will be some time yet before I turn the excrement-covered bomb-site that is my back garden into the Xanadu my new neighbours are all undoubtedly wishing to see...
4) Leaning over the fence discussing the local news with my new neighbour. Leaning over a fence! Gossiping! I feel like after experiencing tennement life for the past 10 years, I have finally found my home. Seemingly I have spent my whole life destined to natter over a fence with a like minded lady about how "him-across-the-road" lost his wife to the milkman and how her two doors down has had a face like a smacked arse since it turned out her daughter in law was up the duff to a polish plasterer.
You can now put a face to me. I look JUST like Les Dawson as Cissie (or was it Ada?) In fact, I'm off to New Look to get meself a leopardskin print headscarf right now.