More than One Way to Skin a Mole.

Let face it, gardens are full of pests, from field voles to rabbits and from squirrels to a visiting tosser who while being the exception is the irritating tit that gnaws away your mind all day long.....traps, rifles, and pretending to be simple are the usual control methods employed and generally keep their unwanted attentions to a manageable level.

Having spent several days revisiting my old friend 'manual labour' and finding it exceedingly backbreaking not to mention tedious I was not best pleased to gain the interest of Mr Mole, who appreciating the nicely raked, trodden, sown, and raked, trodden, sown again grass seeded paths, duly proceeded to burrow his way all through the hard prepared land I had bust a bollock or two creating. It would be an untruth to say my language was suitable for those with a sensitive nature, many of the words uttered contained the letters f and c in the capital position. However, calmness returned with the aid of some breathing exercises I have been taught by a counsellor lady charged with the task of returning some balance into my life.....

....Well it's not f***ing working!

I had only to think of that furry, velvet coated little bastard and my blood pressure rose dramatically. However, now I think there is a God of gardeners, a benevolent overseer of all things horticultural who looks down kindly upon apoplectic nurserymen and rebalances the scales of justice in our favour.

It was early afternoon at Eggleston Hall Gardens and Robert was lent against his spade while I was vigorously tilling the good earth, he had been stood there for a good hour sucking his thumb and dreaming of pork pies from Lewis and Coopers, I on the other hand was sweating buckets and counting my knackers, suddenly Roberts thumb plopped out of his mouth with a popping sound

"Look at that little bugger" he exclaimed lamenting the fact his thumb was not a pork pie after all, nor was it from Lewis and Coopers either... "I'm off to get the gun" and with that he disappeared as quick as snot off a chickens lip.

By the time I had got myself into the upright position, having been bent double under the blazing sun in pure agricultural toil, Robert had returned with my single shot 4.10 and was stood above a mole hill....

"What are you doing" I asked in a distant, plaintive voice through being so hard at work...

"I'm going to shoot the little bast....." He never completed his sentence before a shot echoed and thundered around the wall and the mole hill disappeared in a puff of splattered soil. To be replaced by a three foot trench with a very dead mole sat bolt upright at the far end.

"I've always wanted to do that" said Robert with a look of sheer glee on his face.

But I had no time to share his joy.....I was back to the grindstone under the hot midday sun, raking, treading, sowing raking, and fantasizing about the degree of my actual efforts.......along with Lewis and Coopers pork pies of course.