When I am not otherwise engaged with my busy life I find
myself gazing out my back window at the garden. It's not a
beautifull sight. There are few plants and to the best of my knowledge
no herbs and the only perennials the casual viewer might see are the
bins and old fridges lining the wall that separates it from its neighbour.
The soil is a mixture of stones and broken brick, no gardening is
done here and its doubtfull if anything would grow. There are no trees.
But its a garden for all that and it seems strangely in tune with my
life. There is nothing here that will shock or shake or cause the
world to stop and remark on its being, there are few suprises and
no great beauty. The soil is barren and littered with the debris of an
unremarkable life.