I Committed a Garden
- Tina's Blossom Life
- Jun 9
- 3 min read
I committed a garden.
Not in a poetic, Pinterest-board kind of way. No, I committed a garden the way people commit a crime of passion — suddenly, dramatically, and with deeply misguided optimism.
It started with a vision: me, my hubby, sipping wine in a straw hats, surrounded by thriving rows of home-grown vegetables, exotic herbs, and flowers blooming in slow motion while the sun kisses our cheek. The soundtrack? Probably something from a French café playlist.
Reality? I’m sweating in last year’s muddy Crocs, swearing at a rogue blackberry bush that somehow grew teeth.
🌿 “It’ll Be Cheap,” I Said
The first lie I told myself was, “Gardening will save money.”
HAHA.
That innocent packet of basil seeds led to a spiral of financial ruin:
Million of garden gloves(£ never ending story)
Fancy soil that smells like sadness and organic failure (£20 per bag)
Pipes, water tank, etc. (£ 200)
Pots (£20)
Don’t even get me started on all the tools, where in one season my husband can break 3 shovels (now I'm smarter and I buy them at the carboots sales for £5)
By the time I left the garden centre, I’d spent more than I do during a full-blown mental health breakdown in IKEA.
I could’ve bought all my vegetables from Waitrose, gift-wrapped.
🧽 It’s Not Just “Watering a Few Plants”
People think gardening is about planting things and “just watering them.”
LIES.
Oh, deer...
There’s digging, lifting, swearing, hauling, staking, swearing, untangling, replanting, swearing, crawling on your hands and knees like a feral garden goblin. There’s also weeding, which is an extreme sport disguised as a wholesome activity.
I’ll weed for three hours straight, stand up triumphantly like I’ve conquered Mordor, and by the next day the weeds are back. But double. Like they brought friends. And maybe a marching band.
🧳 Holidays? A Fantasy
Quite often We travel, and We dared to go on holiday. Just a week.
I left my allotment looking clean, tidy, and full of promise. Seven days later, I returned to what I can only describe as the Amazon rainforest — if Jeff Bezos was a lazy monkey (me). Every weed had a PhD in invasion tactics. My carrots were buried somewhere under aggressive nettles. A squirrel gave me side-eye like, “You left, we took over. Deal with it.”
🧘♀️ But Still... I Love It
Why do I do it?
Why do I willingly choose back pain, soil under my nails, and the constant emotional rollercoaster of “Is that a tomato or a weed?”
Because gardening is weirdly therapeutic.
It taps into something primal and petty — I like to see something grow because of me. When you cross that magical 30+ threshold, suddenly it’s deeply satisfying to watch a tiny green sprout emerge and think, “I made that happen. I have power. I AM NATURE.”
Plus, it’s one of the few times you can scream at slugs and it’s socially acceptable.
☔ UK Weather? Try Me
Let’s not forget that I live in the UK, where the weather has its own personality disorder. Sun? Rain? Hail? All in one day? Lovely.
It's not just the weather that can unleash the devil under the skin of a "mini farmer".
Let's not forget about the birds, who love it when the beautifully dug earth has fresh seeds and decide to "bath" in this earth and eat the seeds that appear outside faster than I planted them on my knees.
Of course, all the interesting insects that eat fresh leaves or snails, those that thank you for the lettuce and other delicacies in the garden.
All my flowers were very tasty to the muntjacs from all over the area.
🌻 Conclusion: I Committed, and I’ll Commit Again
Gardening isn’t a hobby. It’s a lifestyle. A gamble. A masochistic romance with nature.
It’s financially irresponsible, physically demanding, emotionally confusing — and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Except maybe a week in Spain and a Piña colada.
But I’ll be back. Covered in soil. Smiling like a lunatic. Plotting revenge on the dandelions. Because I committed a garden — and I’m proud of my leafy crime.
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