Shears: Cutting-hedge Technology.

I tried to apply a practical mind today by doing some gardening to prevent my incoming directionlessness mindset from scuppering my day.

The current circumstances, both personally and on a wider scale, feel like the perfect storm for low mood and lethargy. Meanwhile, I'm standing at Ground Zero, steeling myself against my depressive susceptibility (like Gandalf, dosed up on citalopram, screaming, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS").

At least I'm prepared for this, having spent years attempting to carefully manage my mental health to varying degrees of success. The pandemic, however, has left many people who've never considered what's a healthy strategy to stave off depression and anxiety, ankle-deep in a river of faeces, sans paddle. And that precise location, for those of you familiar with the app what3words, is fuckwit.johnson.shame.

The change of scenery from laptop to garden definitely helped, as did focusing on a physical task. It's like when I disappear for an hour or so to play the drums just to blow out the cobwebs. And the simple job I'd chosen of trimming the hedges had the gratification of instant improvement. But what satisfied me most was the thought that I was the third generation of Ephgraves to grapple with a pair of shears to do it, following in my dad's footsteps as he followed in his. That's why I wanted to live here: because the house is steeped in seventy years of family history. And if my dad could see it, I know he'd be delighted (after critiquing my amateur topiary, as would only be right).

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