Confessions of a Very Tired Garden Gnome (Who Didn’t Ask for a Makeover)
I’ve been standing in this garden for twelve years. I’ve survived snow, heatwaves, kids with footballs, and a dog that thinks I’m a chew toy with a hat. I was content. Untouched. Peacefully crusted with moss and mystery stains. But then… the humans got “ideas.”
It started when someone stared at the patio like it had personally insulted them. Next thing I heard was a dramatic whisper about pressure washing birmingham, and I knew the days of peaceful dirt were numbered. Buckets appeared. Hoses untangled. The garden shed began shaking like a witness under interrogation.
But that wasn’t enough. Oh no. They didn’t just want a clean spot—they wanted a clean everything. Suddenly, phrases like exterior cleaning birmingham were being thrown around with the same energy people use when planning a wedding or a heist. The fences looked nervous. The decking fainted (or rotted, unclear).
The patio was first. Once a safe haven for moss, crumbs, and forgotten plant pots, it got blasted into a new dimension thanks to patio cleaning birmingham. The before-and-after difference was so dramatic I thought someone had secretly replaced the slabs overnight.
Then came the driveway—where I’ve witnessed tyre screeches, chalk art disasters, and one accidental fondue spill. But when driveway cleaning bimringham came into play, even the stains that were older than the children vanished. It now looks like the runway of a very clean budget airport.
Just when I thought they were done, they looked up.
The roof.
The roof.
Home to moss, pigeons, and that one missing Frisbee from 2019.
Before I could blink (or pretend to blink—I’m ceramic, it’s complicated), they were discussing roof cleaning birmingham. Ladders emerged. Brushes scraped. The roof tiles went from “archaeological site” to “real estate brochure.”
By sunset, the whole outside world looked brand new. The humans were thrilled. The garden sparkled. The cat sat on the clean patio like it owned it. And me?
I was scrubbed. Polished. Rinsed. Fresh as the day I was painted.
Do I miss my old moss beard?
Maybe.
Do I look fantastic now?
Absolutely.
But let it be known: if they ever try to repaint me in pastel colours, I will fall over dramatically and shatter out of protest.
Clean is fine.
Pastel is war.