2023, Mid-February, I move overseas to Scotland to join my husband. 

I’m not severely jetlagged, recovering a mere two days after arrival. The house is clean, and though it needs at least one repair within the next 5 years, it’s relatively peaceful area.

Or so I thought.

It’s not long after settling in, I notice that something is amiss in our backyard. Right now, it’s not much to look at, having been stripped bare for a number of reasons, the primary reason was because my husband seems to have a deep loathing of grass. He said the yard needed to be levelled out. Does this look level to you?

I, on the other hand, am used to acres of grass (granted mixed with hay seed) and quite like the idea of sitting in the sun on a blanket with snacks and a book. The only problem, which I’m not to sure is a real problem, are the slugs.

You see my husband knows that I have this irrational fear of slugs. That fear stems from a documentary where this slug got diseased and was all psychedelic before a bird ate him, which made the bird sick. Sure, I’m not about to eat the earth vermin, but it just stuck with me. *shudders*

I’m thinking, he’s telling me about slugs being a problem because he wants to scorch the patch of grass we do have and replace it with stone. There’s nothing like a common enemy to encourage mutually bad policies, after all.

I’m skeptical. Like how bad is this problem? Like bad, bad? Or just bad?

“They ate the sun flowers!”

“Not the zombie prevention defensives!” I gasp. 

We do live a straight shot from the cemetery, which adds to the peaceful atmosphere I’ve been very much enjoying. But then I remember, he planted three sun flowers against the fence, where they wouldn’t be in full sun, like ever. It could be that they were eaten by a very ambitious slug. I mean, I’m willing to admit that they exist… and I do have a defensive plan for our perimeter whenever I decide what to do with our wasteland of a garden.

But the slugs aren’t the thing that’s got my Spidey senses tingling.

I’m doing some work at my new desk, when I hear ‘Thunk’. Naturally I jump three feet into the air as I’m torn from my concentration in the most savage way possible. 

I do what any sensible person would do; I look out the window. I see my barren wasteland of garden. Nothing is a miss. The snow get’s heavier and I see some sleet bounce impressively high into the air. I figure “hail?” And return to work.

The snow lasts for 7-days, which is unusual for the city center. When the snow melts, I find all sorts of weird things, batteries, lighters, a tube which I mistake for a fire cracker. I figure: “Birds?” clean up the mess and move on with my life.

Fast forward to two days ago. 

My husband I have returned from a nice outing looking at bird baths and statues for the garden. Had a peek at a bench, and I settle on a cherry bush to add to our garden. Only my in-laws vito that plan – and I’m left wonder ‘who the fuck’s garden is this anyway?’ It wasn’t like they were paying for the damn thing. But I digress. 

It’s just easier to move on, and order the tree when I get home and plant it in the devastation when I’m good and ready. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. Could be a month from now. It doesn’t matter! It’s MY GARDEN!

But that’s not the problem either.

‘Thud!’ 

I jump to the window, just in time to see what I think is a fire cracker crash onto our patio. In the distance, are two kids. Old enough to know better, young enough that if I beat the shit out of them, it’s a felony offence, and because of the under developed frontal lobe issue that all teenagers suffer from, they will legitimately not understand that they got beat up because they littered someone yard. I’ll admit, it would be an overreaction…. But!

I watch helplessly as a lighter sails in the air, arching like a flightless bird over the shed and crashes into my patio. I imagine my husband’s future bird bath getting chipped as a consequence. I glower as something else hits the patio. Thunk, thunk, thunk! It’s raining lighters. Then Ka-THUMK! Their latest assault strikes our window. No damage that I can see. 

“We’re insured right?” I ask my husband.

“You can’t get a mortgage unless you’re insured,” he replies.

“If those little assholes break our window, do we have to pay a higher premium on our monthlies?” 

My husband get’s very quiet. I’m not sure he knows. I know I don’t know. But I do know that if there’s a car accident, there’s a good chance you’re paying a little bit extra going forward. Between inflation, the increase in heating, electricity, food, council tax, taxes in general, and well… our mortgage interest has just jumped by another 5%, we cannot afford yet another unforeseen cost.

My husband tells me now that this has been a weekly occurrence for months!

I glare daggers at him. Why are there no turrets?

He shrugs. There’s nothing he can do or that can be done, he says. And he knows I’m a results-oriented person, so there was no point in bringing it up.

“I’ll handle it,” I mutter. “I know a guy.”

My husband does not know that I do, in fact, know a guy. 

I figure no kill shots, just aim for the throwing hand, and at worst, go for the shoulder. I WANT them to live! I want them to fear possibility that short of tossing their bullshit into the right bin, there’s a very real probably that it may cost them their other arm. 

Okay, so it’s a ‘little bit’ of an overreaction. I’ll admit it, but thinking about it makes me happy. Well maybe not happy, happy, but it makes me feel less helpless.

After looking into the legal side of things, there really is fuck all I CAN do about it.

It’s left me numb to anything garden related. 

Mowing the law could be a dangerous hazard, but I could be blowing it out of proportion. I just imagine mowing over a lighter, or God know what else! And BAM my mower get’s all uppity and I lose a leg. Yeah, that escalated quick.

My husband wins. The grass will not be a feature of our yard.

And now I’m seriously reconsidering growing my veggies…