As I slipped gently between childhood, adolescence and
finally early adulthood, the time spent in my garden diminished slowly but
inexorably. Other interest drew me away from the small green expanse at the
back of the house, with the patio, swings and vegetable patch. It was screens
mostly, first the television when we got Freeview for the first time in early
2003 then consoles – TimeSplitters 2, Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 4 and Guitar Hero
were the main offenders – and the internet. Not only that, but as I grew I was permitted
more freedoms, and long afternoons playing football at the park were infinitely
preferable to kicking a ball against the side of house.
Jumping through the sprinkler in Speedos. Chasing small
puddles round the rubberised fabric that formed the den on the climbing frame.
Coming away from climbing the tree at the end of the garden, hands sticky with
resin. I can remember the curtain-call for each of these. At 9 years old
playing around with the sprinkler was fun; the following summer I considered
that extremely weird. Eventually we didn’t fit in the climbing frame den so it
was dismantled one afternoon, but we still had the swings so that was alright. One
afternoon I was in the den bit with my friend from nursery, and his Irish mum
came round to pick him up. Neither of us really wanted to get down, so slightly
irate she said ‘Get daaynnn niieee, Jornathaan’ (get down now, Jonathan), and
it became something of a catchphrase in our house. And the day when the tree
surgeons came, bringing tools of destruction upon our little tree, was a day of
mourning. Mum said it was killing the surrounding plants, but my grasp of floral
imperialism was limited at that point so I didn’t really believe her. All I
knew was that the tree was now a stump, and that opportunities for playing with
a stump were limited.
Badminton was popular in our house for a while. Dad was the
pro, forever catching me out with frustrating drop-shots. Paul was the worst.
He was completely shit. He is also three years younger than I and four and a
half than Rob, but still. The tantrums were hilarious. To his credit he
improved steadily until he was at least reasonably competent. I remember the
day badminton was ended forever particularly well because I caused it. Keen for
some football practice, I went into the garden and tried to use the net as a ‘wall’.
I got it over a few times, then one shot hit it full on, snapping a guy rope,
and it collapsed. I never owned up, in fact I actually lied to Dad for some
reason, and that was that. Table tennis was a relatively short-lived
replacement, but the nightmare of trying to find the stupid little ball in the
itchy bush (our garden is littered with itchy bushes) was too much of a
barrier to ever invest serious time into it.
Clearly, sport was the main focus in the garden, and the
main sport was football. Penalties were fun for a while, although Mum hated it.
She was too useless anyway. Then my cousin Matthew began lodging with us, and
he could do 96 keepie-uppies. My best effort at that time (around year 4 at
school) was 8, so I was suitably impressed (my all-time best up to this point
is 92, so I got damn close!). However, ours wasn’t a garden suited to playing
football. It was too thin with too many things in the way and too many plants
round the edge. Every years the daffodils appeared behind the swings in
springs; every year they got flattened by errant footballs and, uhh, feet. I
didn’t really give a shit about those daffodils. The aforementioned itchy
bushes were the bane of my footballing childhood. I never understood them. They
looked like ugly. They were big, they were dense, they were in the way, and
they were itchy! Most of the time a
broom was required to dig the ball out but frequently I just used to whack the
bush in frustration.
Only once did they provide me with any amusement. In one of
his many short-lived phases, Paul wanted to improve his football skills so I
got him to do a few drills I knew. Obviously the ball kept going in the bush,
so I told him that getting the ball out the bush was an important skill. He
bought it, the idiot. So I kicked the ball in the bush a few times and he would
diligently go and dig it out, getting covered in that itchy powder each time.
Simple pleasures.
Our garden was also home to our guinea-pigs. There
were two: a dusty-ginger one called Spike and a black and white one called
Ollie. I think we got Spike when I was in year 2, and Ollie a year later. They
had a decent innings I think; I can’t remember precisely when they died, but when
Spike died the three of us sat and cried in the living room all morning. As
Spike got older I remember being terrified that I would be the one to find him
dead; we changed their cage on a week-by-week rota so there was a one-in-three
chance. Paul ended up being the unlucky one; Dad buried them both by the
rhubarb. I don’t remember much of Ollie if I’m honest, he was the quiet, meek
one. When he died all I could think was how shit it much have been for Spike to
have to share a hutch for a few hours with his only companion in the world
lying dead nearby. In retrospect, I neglected them, but thankfully they had Mum
to give them attention and broccoli stalks. Consequently they squeaked when she
walked past, hopeful for food, but didn’t for me. Once Ollie was dead, Spike
got lonely. I walked past his run once and he took a flying leap at the chicken
wire in a desperate attempt to escape. I was shocked, and it was awful.
I got in a scrap with Rob over the guinea-pigs once. It was Monday,
and the responsibility of cleaning their hutch had fallen to me, but Rob, caught
up in the daily routine, forgot it had changed until he was halfway though. He
accused me (correctly) of knowing it was my turn all along, and we had our
first and last genuine fight. Matthew slunk off to get Mum, who threw us in separate
parts of the house to cool off. It took a few days.
I won the fight, by the way (Rob will disagree).
Once the guinea-pigs were gone I could go the whole autumn
and winter without venturing out into the garden even once. Then, once the sun
came out I would spend half an hour or more each afternoon after school practicing
keepie-uppies and ball control. I never really got it; I blame my gangly legs.
Though if Peter Crouch could do it…
The last strong memory I have of the garden is a surprise
birthday party when I was 17 that my then-girlfriend threw for me, in allegiance with Rob. It
was lovely, it really was – just a simple gathering of friends enjoying being
together. Also it was genuinely truly a surprise; I got back from shopping in
Windsor with Mum and Rob made an incredibly shit reason for me to go in the
living room – something about Kenyans running on the telly (possibly the Great
North Run) – and I went in and heard giggling then they popped out from behind
settees and chairs and stuff. Good times.
