Celebrating the death of youth

Something happened to me recently that was just as profound and life-changing as a first kiss or the realisation that sprouts taste okay. I not only went to a garden centre; I actually looked forward to going to the garden centre before I went.

There was an underlying rock and roll reason for all of this. At the end of my back garden there is a road that attracts some of the most voyeuristic and foul mouthed people in Manchester. All that stands between them and me is a hedge so wispy it wouldn’t look out of place on Bruce Forsyth’s groin.

All through last summer, whenever I was trying to relax on a sun lounger, my reverie was constantly interrupted by comments such as “I don’t think much of that patio, mate”, “Your begonias are dying”, “Why is there a donkey floating in your pond?” and “please will you put some clothes on, my children are crying”.

I realised that what I needed was better hedging. And I also needed to remove the donkey from the pond (it’s a long story). So essentially this is all about me being able to get drunk in peace, which is a very youthful and exciting thing to do and not at all related to getting old and turning into my Dad.

However, I did a bit of Googling into hedging and started to get a tingle of excitement. Hedging was actually an interesting subject. There are lots of different types of hedges. Some of them grow quickly. Some of them grow slowly. Some of them produce berries. Some of them are excellent at attracting chaffinches. Some really irritate herons.

Within a very short space of time I was hooked by the fascinating shrub-based world. And my interest spread to other aspects of gardening, such as the sex lives of holly bushes and how to beat a mole to death with a shovel. I had crossed the line. Gardening seemed interesting, my youth was behind me and that’s why I was looking forward to visiting the garden centre - a place I normally associated with old people, paste sandwiches, the Antiques Roadshow and encroaching death.

Rather than screaming incoherently at God and weeping like a small child, I have decided to welcome this new found maturity and wrap myself up in its warm, cardigan-wearing embrace.

What this means for my clients is that I am changing – as an individual and a copywriter. I now realise that most of my previous work has been callow and childish. The brochure on insurance law in Latvia, for example, now seems like it was written by a five year old. That poster on hygiene in the workplace has the profundity of a cream cake. The ‘Make mine a woody’ mug for that timber company is as shallow as Natwest’s helpful banking campaign.

Growing old may have its drawbacks. Dying being one of the main ones. But it also has its advantages. I promise to be better, wiser and slightly slower in the future. I will also shout more down the phone and offer you a toffee when you visit the office. And if anyone knows how to control black fly on fuscias then I’d be delighted to hear from you.