Until yesterday I had this great jungle of roses. It needed pruning, certainly. I had been suggesting to my husband that he prune it for months before it burst into bloom.

Recently, though, I’ve been reveling in it. I had breakfast at the table you can barely see through the window, enjoying the scent of the flowers as I sipped my tea,

In the evenings, I sat out on the patio, breathing in the spicy fragrance. There were hundreds or buds and blossoms nodding their pretty heads.

Even the cat liked them, as you can see.

Yesterday, my husband chopped them all down and threw them away.

He may have intend to prune them, but when I say “prune” I mean cutting out the dead wood and shaping the plant so it will be healthy and happy.

I would call this butchery.

I don’t know what was in his mind. I was very upset, though.

I had also suggested to my husband and to my sons, both strapping lads with lots of muscles and plenty of free time, that they dig up the garden while there was still time to plant some vegetables.

All three of them ignored my suggestion.

So yesterday, once my husband had removed the rose jungle, ha had lots of open space in which he could plant vegetables. Did he dig up the garden?

No.

He planted a bunch of tomato plants in pots.
He lined the random pots up along the patio. He intends to set them all onto the un-dug, weed-filled dirt of the garden.  

This will give us a Plain of Jars effect by the horribly tortured remnants of the roses.

I was really pretty upset by this.

I’m trying to be nice about it. I’m glad we’ll have tomatoes, and I guess there are weirder things to do on a patio than this.

Sigh.