On Wednesday, the weather was clear and bright.

The bluest of skies, the sun glinting through the trees.

I spent the day gardening.

Weeding can be therapeutic, don’t you think?

Firstly the physical act of pulling out a plant is satisfying.

It’s like you are removing all the imperfections of your own life.

Take that unpaid bills!

Poor game of bridge!

Annoying kids!

Nagging husband!

Fat thighs!
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Then it is so good to look at the garden bed, smooth and perfect at the end.

Of course, as the garden bed becomes more and more perfect, you become less so.

Dirt marks your face and streaks your clothes, your nails fill with mud and crack, your knees start to ache and your back protests.

It makes me think that whenever I see perfection, I’m really looking at hard work.

That somewhere, like The Picture of Dorian Gray, there is a dirty, unkempt, maybe injured person – the agent of the perfection before you.

Nothing’s perfect.

And perhaps the most perfect looking things are the least perfect of all.

Even now, when I look at my newly weeded garden beds I can see the stubborn shoots of the odd weed poking their way out to taunt me.

I think I will let them grow.

For now.

Maybe life shouldn’t be perfect.