Burning Desire

Well thank god, my dear old dad came and cut my grass yesterday, the longest grass on the entire street (I checked), bringing along his sidekick partner who attacked my garden like a member of the Ground Force crew. I, on the other hand, who finds gardening as exciting as watching a cornflake get soggy, milled around, half heartedley pulling at a few weeds. I just can't get into it. And I don't like the way I feel slightly ashamed about it too, like I should enjoy gardening. I just don't have the backbone for it, the patience (I like quick results not all this hanging about waiting for things to grow), I don't like the creepy crawlies, I don't like the all the scratches you end up with and all the little accidents that seem to occur (while my dad and his partner whistled away, all you could hear from me every five minutes was "OW! That bloody hurt".

At one point, I went inside to skive for a bit and returned to see that my dad had given Ky a pair of those pointy sharp things, what you use to cut the weeds with but could also be used to lose a finger or two. I had to try and wrestle these off Ky (yes I did try a few other techniques first but then I just wanted to get the damn thing off him). That was a heap of fun, if not slightly hazardous to the eyeballs.

My dad has always been a bit liberal with things like that. To be honest, I don't ever remember him telling me something was dangerous, sharp or fragile. It wasn't out of neglect, he just didn't care to lecture or frighten us with something that might never happen, leaving us to make our own decisions. Someone like me, though, would often abuse that kind of trust.

I remember having two scrapes in particular, involving fire. On one occasion, when I was about ten, I instructed my sister to come and watch me perform my show in the living room. She dutifully sat as she always does, her face looking slightly concerned as I lit two 'swords' made of kitchen paper towel with a lighter and proceeded to whoosh them around in the air. It was all going so well, until about three seconds later when the swords were blazing out of control, forcing me to drop them on the sofa. The sofa was now on fire, and my sister was now transfixed as I panicked like mad and eventually put the fire out with a bottle of Evian. "Ok" I panted "show's over" and off my sister went back to her room without a word to continue whatever it was she was doing. Now most kids I know would have got into a lot of trouble for this, but my dad just said "As long as you are ok, I don't care about the sofa."

Not long after, I was sitting in my dad's office above his restaurant, completely bored, thinking "What to do, what to do, what to...oh how about setting bits of paper on fire.." so I proceeded, blowing the fire out on each bit of paper before chucking it in the bin. Next thing you know, would you believe it, the bin is on fire. So I tried to take the bin, now full of flames and singeing my eyebrows, to the toilets. On the way, I met a horrified looking customer who asked me if I needed any help, but I just shrugged it off "No, no, it's fine, really", grinning like mad and even held the door open for her. I wasn't going to let a thing like fire rob me of my manners, something my father did teach me. I managed to put the fire out, and tiptoed back, looking through a glass pane of a door to see my dad scratching his head and trying to work out why there was a trail of burnt patches on the floor leading from his office to the toilets. I mean it had my name written all over it, but I guess he was just wondering what methods I had employed. I burst into tears as he reassured me "I don't care about the restaurant, as long as you're alright."

Maybe I should let Ky have a go with the gardening tools. After all, when my dad stops coming to cut my grass, it will be Ky who will have the pleasure of sorting my garden out. I'll just stay inside and do something I'm good at. Like setting something on fire.