Horticulture versus warticulture.

     I know, I know. Incurable optimists and proponents of positive thinking will reprove me for not counting my blessings, looking on the bright side, and monkeying around making an effort at seeing, hearing and speaking no evil. But there are times when I just can’t help letting life get me down.

     Like today, for example, when one of my principal refuges from the woes of the world, horticulture, is once again feeling more like warticulture, fraughticulture, or even as my friend PV has suggested in a comment, hurticulture.

Because the bandicoots about which I wrote almost a year ago in posts including ‘Guardin’ the garden’, ‘The garden plot thickens’ and ‘Bandicoots and BNdicoots’, and long ago thought I’d banned from my small plot of land, are back.

     Or maybe they’re not the same band of bandicoots as before, but new bandirecruits that are so busy bandirooting-up my plants once more. But whatever, they’re going to be the banedicoots of my existence until I can bandiboot them out, or, if you prefer, persuade them to exporticulture themselves away someplace else.

     And I’ve got the same problem with the kind of love that’s even dearer to my heart than horticulture, human amourticulture. Because while everything’s as much a Garden of Eden as ever in my consorticulture, daughterculture and moreticulture departments, there are so many serpents in the grass, worms in the apple and other forms of warticulture around in the wider world as to threaten to overwhelm my feelings of adoreticulture with abhorticulture.

     Closest to home for me are the revolting revelations of rape, sexual abuse, whoreticulture and rorticulture that have been breaking over Australia’s Parliament House in Canberra in recent weeks.

     I have to confess that I have mixed feelings on this matter.

On the one hand I’m both sad and mad as in angry about all the allegations of rape and other forms of sexual abuse of women.

And on the other I’m glad that it’s the current Liberal-National Coalition federal government that has been revealed as going so feral, as these scandals could spell the end of its efforts to turn parliament into its partisan parliarment and Canberra into its own Conberra.

Or, when it comes to accepting the scientific and starkly evident reality of climate change, or taking any action whatever to ward it off, Can’tberra.

But, as Prime Minister Morrison/Morriscon/Morriscan’t so self-destructively remarked last week about the recent Women4Justice march on Parliament/Parliarment House in a misguided attempt to appease female voters, at least his regime doesn’t shoot protestors on the streets.

A statement that, however flawticultural it was proved to be in the opinion of feminists, and indeed all of Morrison’s enemists, was at least a change in that it was true, and drew attention to the slaughterculture currently being inflicted on the people of Myanmar by its goreticultural generals.

I’d like to go on a good deal longer about all the other flawticultures and aborticultures that I’m feeling soreticultural about today, like, for example, the perennially Planet-plaguing problem of human greed for power and possessions, or what can appropriately deplored as more, more, moreticulture, and get back to some healing horticulture.

 But after a couple of hours and 500 words or so of hard thoughticulture here at the old keyboard, I’m so tired I need a nap. Or, in other words, a retreat from all the nightmares of wakefulness into the blissful unconsciousness and hopefully sweet dreams of snoreticulture.

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