I never asked for attention. I was a simple garden path—concrete slabs, a bit uneven, decorated tastefully with moss, soil stains, and the occasional leaf fossil. People walked on me, kids chalked smiley faces on me, the dog used me as a runway. Life was good. Predictable. Quiet.
Then the humans decided the garden looked “a bit depressing.” Excuse me? I prefer the term aesthetically weathered. But they didn’t ask me. Oh no. They started whispering about pressure washing birmingham like it was some kind of intervention.
That’s when I knew the end was near.
Suddenly the whole exterior became a crime scene, and every surface was guilty. Talk escalated into full-blown exterior cleaning birmingham, and the energy shifted. Even the compost bin started sweating.
The patio was the first victim. Once a proud battlefield of spilled drinks and garden furniture drag marks, it got blasted into a sparkling slab wonderland thanks to patio cleaning birmingham. The humans were thrilled. The moss community filed a complaint.
Then came the driveway, which honestly needed a wash, but no one needed to say it out loud. A quick mention of driveway cleaning bimringham and BOOM—oil stains, tyre trails, and the ghost of last year’s Halloween pumpkin were gone. The driveway looked so clean, I didn’t recognize it. The neighbour thought it had been resurfaced. The driveway now thinks it’s better than me.
And then… the roof. The literal high horse of the property. Covered in moss, algae, and emotional baggage from 1998. But no surface is safe once roof cleaning birmingham is spoken aloud. Ladders. Brushes. Buckets. The pigeons staged a protest and lost.
Finally, the humans looked at me.
I knew what was coming.
I felt the hose move in slow motion.
I heard someone say, “Wow, this path is worse than I thought.”
Rude.
The blast hit. Layers of history—gone. The muddy footprints from that BBQ in 2014? Gone. The faded chalk drawing that used to say “Mum is cool”? Gone. My personality? Also gone.
Now I’m smooth. Bright. Presentable. Soulless.
Everyone keeps walking on me saying, “Wow, we should’ve cleaned this sooner!”
Really? You liked me better NOW?
When I look like an AI-generated version of myself?
But fine. I’ll accept my new role as “respectable path.” I’ll host tea parties and barefoot children and Pinterest-level garden photos.
Just know this:
If someone tries to paint cute patterns on me or outline me with fairy lights,
I’m cracking myself right down the middle.
On purpose.
