Wyb Drabble: Why the weeds are the winners

I believe we are all familiar with the perceived perversity of our lives and our attempts to "explain" it via Murphy's Law or Sod's Law: if something can go wrong, it will.

There is the well-known physics version of the law, for example: if a body is submerged in water, the phone rings.

Or the law that says if toast and jam is going to fall to the floor, it will land jam side down.

There is another version of this which states the chance of its falling jam side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.

Maybe one of the worst examples from history was that of Adolph Coors III, who was allergic to beer but inherited the Coors beer empire.

The wealth accumulated from beer also indirectly caused his death. He died in a botched kidnapping attempt which was made, of course, because of the brewery's wealth.

But I need a new law to explain another situation which belongs to the same perversity genre but is different. It doesn't necessarily involve things going wrong but it is frustrating in a Sod's Law sort of way.

I speak of gardening. Turning the sod, if you will. I'm one of those - and I know I'm far from alone - who suddenly become inspired on the first decent spring day to tackle the tangle of winter weeds and spruce things up for the growing season.

I am the lucky owner of green fingers (as evidenced by the numerous trees I have saved from certain death) but my green fingers are of the winter-hibernating variety.

So, for hours on a beautiful spring day this week, fingers were pierced by rose thorns (yes, I know about gloves but there's something pleasing about getting your fingers in the soil), winter-dormant muscles were stretched and strained, the back was treated to some brutal bending, tools were brought out one by one from their winter cobwebs, stubborn roots were twisted and yanked, piles of garden waste were transferred to appropriate places and a gaggle of grunts emitted.

I'm a classic garden grunter. Pulling a well-rooted clump of couch from its home is simply not as satisfying without a good grunt.

We interrupt this column to remind you of an important gardening rule. When weeding, the best way to make sure you are removing a weed and not a valuable plant is to pull on it. If it comes out of the ground easily, it is a valuable plant.

But back to the issue. Where's the perversity in all of this, you might ask?

Well, I'm sure you've done this too: at the end of six hours of digging and bending and yanking and grunting (as well as the odd cuppa), you stand back with hands on hips to survey the new improved spring garden and ... it looks exactly the same!

That's the law I want a name for. It's the fact that, no matter how hard you labour, you will not make a difference. It will take many more days like this before any improvement is discernible, by which time the weeds you removed on that first spring binge day are back!

It's a pity that the name Sod's Law is already taken because the dictionary definition of sod (turf, a piece of turf, the surface of the ground) would make it fit rather neatly into this slot. Soil's Law lacks the same punch. The Law That Says No Matter How Much Weeding You Do You Won't Make A Difference is just too unwieldy.

The closest I've found is Everything Takes Longer Than It Takes but, while it captures the spirit, it lacks conciseness.

I'm really looking for a (Something) Law or a Law of (Something).

Anyway, I'm sure that someone out there in newspaperland can come up with a suitable name.

Feel free to share your ideas with me.

I will send the creator of the best name an attractively potted paspalum plant. Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, a writer, public speaker and musician.