It would be so great if I had the gardening gene. I would be out there, in good or bad weather, positively revelling in planting pansies and pulling weeds. I would spend lots of time in my shed which by now would have become a potting shed instead of hiding under the guise of an anything receptacle.
My neighbour sings merrily along to a portable radio when she's in her garden. She appears to live there. I expect her bed is in her potting shed.
If only I could look out the window first thing in the morning and exclaim, "What a beautiful day for a spot of gardening!" But instead I think of the beach, or shopping, or hiking, or staying in bed a little longer to finish reading the latest Sophie Kinsella. It gives me some solace in burrowing obstinately under the duvet with my Kindle in lieu of having to think about weeds that have reached hip-height just mere metres from my front door.
I live in hope that watching my neighbour planting her spring bulbs counts as gardening by proxy ....