Wyn Drabble: The Kink really hoses me off

Wyn Drabble.

I hate hoses. I don't mean the hoses that are an integral part of a car engine; I mean common or garden hoses. I dig gardening but I hate hoses with a passion.

No, don't tell me all about all the new models - retractable, non-twist, stretchy, organic, free-range, ones you can only buy by phone, ones with added vitamin C, ones with Sky TV, or ones that are protein-enriched - because I believe I've tried them all but I always find reason to come back to the common or garden hose, the one I hate. With a passion.

I've got one running outside now under one of the orange trees. I've just had to weigh it down with a flowerpot because when I left it earlier it began to flail about like a crazed serpent, indiscriminately watering irrelevant items, ranging from paspalum to stinging nettle (between my weeds, real plants grow).

I don't mean to boast but I've got a really long hose. This means I can carry the business end, the nozzle, round to the place of intended watering then walk back to the other side of the house to turn it on only to return and find it flailing wildly, drenching the purveyors of religion who have turned up during my trip to the tap.

But that's not the worst feature of a hose. That honour goes to The Kink. This is formed when you pull the hose towards you and a loop doesn't unloop itself but just forms an acute angle which shuts off the water supply. I can't calculate how much of my life has been wasted walking back to straighten the cursed Kink.

To be fair, The Kink also has its use. When I have the hose connected to a sprinkler on the lawn and I need to move it further away I cautiously make my way up to the very edge of the spray and form a Kink on purpose to stem the flow while I move the sprinkler.

The dodgy part is making my getaway. Once the sprinkler is in its new position, I must release The Kink and run briskly before the spray can wet me. Sometimes I am staggeringly successful.

Another issue: you can be standing there merrily watering the marigolds when, without warning, the flow stops and I'm not talking about something that happens to men of a certain age. The other end of the hose, the bit that fits into the hose reel, has succumbed to the not inconsiderable water pressure and blown itself out. This must be refitted (with the water supply turned off) before normal watering can be resumed.

Speaking of men of a certain age has reminded me of another issue: hosing is not a wise choice of activity if you're near the point of needing to "go", if you get my drift.

The hose reel itself can add to the problems. The hose is supposed to glide out effortlessly as you pull to gain more but mysterious things happen within that plastic casing; suddenly you jerk to a halt as you reach an internal twist and your force causes a repeat of the problem mentioned above.

Days on which hosing is banned create another hose-related issue but, at least, on those days, you won't experience any of the problems described above.

On those days you'll need to set yourself another challenge such as restraining yourself during a funeral plan commercial.

As you can see, it's definitely not all roses in the world of hoses. The problem this poses definitely imposes, gets up our noses and can adversely affect our roses.

Battle on we must however for without hosing we cannot create the gorgeous garden which might enable us to utter these beautiful words from Richard Brinsley Sheridan:

"Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you."

- Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, a writer, musician and public speaker.