I DON’T know if you’ve ever spent any time raking and sweeping-up leaves in what can be generously described as a stiffish breeze?
I suspect it is good for those of a philosophical turn of mind. Personally I’d rank it, as an act of utter futility, as being up there alongside reading Henry James for the gags.
Not rewarding, if you get my drift.
I find gardening, as an activity, is full of these little sub-plots that leave you scratching the head and wondering “why?”
Take weeding. You spend hours uprooting native plants that are perfectly adapted to the local conditions, and ask for nothing more than to be left alone to thrive undisturbed.
Then you replace them with the sort of flowers and bushes that spend all their spare time writing stinky reviews on TripAdvisor about the soil, the climate, and the north-easterly aspect.
And for the rest of the season you find yourself on your hands and knees tending to these ungrateful and temperamental foreigners, while ripping the head off any restless native that has the temerity to show itself.
Presumably there is a Higher Being who decided these things are Good For The Soul. In the Retired Bloke book of life, they are filed under Mystery.