Concrete lawns

I have become a sweeper of leaves ! I can't believe it. After all these years of holding a strong stance against these individuals, I have unwittingly become one. Standing this afternoon in the garden, broom in hand, dressed to the nines in blundstones, a skimpy house dress (that really should not have even escaped the walls of my house - not even to the walled confines of my front garden) and mismatched socks. My hair: a frizzy 'up do' that was tumbling with every sweep, the only vague indication that I had actually set foot outside my front door, just hours ago, styled for the likes of Mr David Jones. Looking up from the accumulated leaves, in a moment of time travel, I found myself remembering my bewilderment, years ago, as to why people would sweep. There is a thing called wind - it blows and it will continue to blow leaves onto your garden, months, weeks, days, MINUTES ! After you sweep them away. For heavens sake, do something worthwhile: Put your feet up, hold a beer, watch leaves blow onto your lawn, and then... watch them blow off again. Yes, I sense it too, this blog is shedding light on the suppressed angst and frustration of a suburban childhood. And yet, there I was this afternoon sweeping. Worse still, I must confess, I didn't put all the leaves in the bin or mulch them. No, with guilty glances to my left and right, I hastily swept them onto the footpath and onto the beds around the trees of the street. Stop ! I heard my inner voice tell me. You are turning into that senile neighbour from when you were ten, that glared at you from her porch when you rode past on your bike. She would sweep every morning, not a hair, not a roach, not a grass clipping would tarnish the smooth mission brown concrete off her front path. The path lead to her palace, a red brick one at that and nothing would tarnish her vision of manicured suburban splendour. But where did all the debry go, you may ask ? Who cares, is the correct response, out of sight out of mind, right ? WRONG. And this is what drives me crazy about domestic suburban bliss, its disregard for anything outside the white picket fence - and leaves are just the tip of the ice burg.

Sure enough, I promptly re gathered my leaves and disposed of them into the compost bin out the back. Book in hand, I reclined on my couch, and gave a welcoming smile to the ferns and weeds that were shooting up between the cracks of my concrete lawn.