Ah the joys of gardening.
I say this after a three-day blitz trying to restore some semblance of lawn under the clothes-line; or at least something without eye-high seed-heads to snag the washing.
The first obstacle was an unruly pile of bonfire wood unloaded hastily at the clothesline's perimeter last year, which somehow fell off the to-do list and subsequently disappeared under a vigorous patch of kikuyu.
Wrenching it free took the first day. The next two required kitting up with heavy-duty armour against flying debris hurled by the weed-eater while hacking the overgrowth down to ankle height.
The next plan is to slash the bamboo encroachments at the other end preparatory to another two-day slaughter, hopefully meeting eventually in the middle before it's all waving in the breeze again.
Things are no better out the back where trees, once dear tiny tender seedlings, planted to stabilise the steep eroding hillside between us and one of the best views around, are now towering giants requiring brutal chainsaw action before we can see out again.
In 25 years, what started as a blank windy hilltop canvas grazed by cattle - where every baby plant had to be cosseted with tender loving care - is now an impenetrable rampant jungle of biological opportunists, both native and exotic.
Clearly Northland's flora needs no encouragement whatsoever to claim territory in short order.
In hindsight, gardening is a kind of megalomania, a misguided romantic attempt to create a personal Eden ... and we all know how that ended.
One lifetime is only long enough to discover the mistakes. To practise gardening sustainably, another would be necessary.
From bitter experience, the biggest blunders are lack of foresight, and failure to take advice such as; don't plant anything big close to buildings, pathways and roads, otherwise tree roots will snake underneath, merrily cracking concrete, asphalt and foundations all the way.
I know it's hard to believe cute little seedlings will grow into 60 foot home-wreckers in moments but they do.
Other mistakes are jasmine (rapacious and impossible to kill without napalm), wisteria (likewise); cineraria senecio (two metre woody version of the small purple decorative cineraria, with yellow flowers, which stalks vast tracts by cunningly drooping to ground level and layering new clumps); bamboo (busily pushing up floor boards and tearing up the road as we speak); poplars, avocados, silver dollar gums and bay trees (all capable of blocking out the sky in the blink of an eye), and any kind of salvia (every little piece of it left on the ground after weeding will grow, compounding the problem, and it doesn't burn either) except sage.
Forget white climbing roses with vicious thorns, prickly pear cactuses, and Norfolk Island hibiscus trees - covered with lovely pink flowers before dropping seedpods full of needle-sharp hairs impossible to extricate from feet and hands - too.
The list goes on.
Take my advice, no matter how pretty the flowers, how lovely the gift any of these plants might seem. Do not plant them unless you want to spend the rest of your life fighting a losing battle which they will surely win.
Should you be tempted still to practise alfresco megalomania, try cattle, concrete, gnomes or polite potted lobelias instead.