Is it just me, or is the Hive blockchain looking a little more shiny today? Probably because I haven’t been here to clutter it up for a while. Yes, I know, I’ve been gone. I’ve been an absentee landlord of my own blog, and frankly, my Hive wallet is starting to look like a dehydrated raisin. Every day I don’t post is a day I lose out on that sweet, sweet "free" crypto, but life—as it usually does—decided to throw a wrench in my daily posting routine. But I’m back. And I’ve brought stories. Because apparently, when I’m not typing, I’m busy trying to reverse a trailer into a hole while half of Flanders watches and judges my masculinity.

The Final Whistle (and the Sound of Silence)

Can you believe we are already at the tail end of April 2026? Time flies when you’re standing on the sidelines of a damp football pitch, smelling the distinct aroma of deep-fryer fat from the canteen while screaming at a teenager to "find the space." This past weekend marked the end of the regular local amateur football competitions. It’s that magical time of year when the drama reaches its peak. We have the champions popping champagne, the relegated teams drowning their sorrows in cheap beer, and the "in-betweeners" preparing for the play-offs. It’s the ultimate emotional rollercoaster. For some, it’s the "promotion after-competition," a desperate, sweaty scramble for glory. For others, it’s the "relegation battle," which is essentially the football equivalent of trying to fix a leak in a boat with a piece of chewing gum while the sharks circle. But for me? The most important part is that the youth competition is over. Do you realize what this means? It means my weekends have been returned to me. I am no longer a high-speed shuttle service for muddy boots and sweaty jerseys. I am a free man. Or at least, I thought I was free until I looked at my garden.

The "Container Park" Trauma

With my newfound weekend freedom, I decided to tackle the legendary "Container Park" (the local dump). For the uninitiated, the container park is not just a place to get rid of garden waste; it is a gladiatorial arena where your ability to reverse a trailer is tested in front of a live audience of grumpy employees and impatient neighbors. I have an old, single-axle trailer. If you’ve ever tried to reverse one of these, you know they are the devil’s invention. Because the wheelbase is so short, the slightest flick of the steering wheel sends the trailer veering off at a 45-degree angle like a startled cat. Adding to the stress is my Trailer PTSD. Two years ago, this very trailer decided it didn’t want to be attached to my car anymore. It unhooked itself on a slope, staged a "Great Escape," and went on a solo mission until it crashed into a fence. Ever since then, every time I hitch it up, I have the recurring nightmare of it overtaking me on the highway and waving goodbye. I managed to empty the pruning waste without hitting anything this time, but the "reverse of shame" back into my driveway took approximately three years off my life expectancy. In Flanders, watching a man struggle with a trailer is basically a national sport, and I’m pretty sure I provided top-tier entertainment for the neighborhood.

The Lounge and the Forbidden Chemistry

Once the trailer was safely (and miraculously) parked, it was time to reclaim the outdoor lounge. After a winter of being a sanctuary for spiders and dust, it finally got its first real "overhaul" of the season. There is something deeply satisfying about scrubbing away the winter grime, even if you know the Sahara dust will probably return tomorrow to cover everything in a fine orange mist. However, the "Lounge Project" revealed a bigger problem: The Stinging Nettles. I went to the garden center to seek professional advice. I wanted something that would send these nettles to the afterlife permanently. The employee looked at me with a mixture of pity and bureaucratic frustration. "Look," he said, "everything we are legally allowed to sell you these days is basically just a herbal tea for the weeds. It’ll give them a haircut for a week, and then they’ll come back stronger and angrier." Then, he leaned in, checked for hidden microphones, and gave me the "forbidden" tip. "I’m not allowed to recommend this," he whispered, "but Chlorine is the only thing that actually does the job. It gets into the roots. Of course, it also nukes the soil, so don't go planting any prize-winning tomatoes there for a while." So there I was, standing in a garden center, feeling like I was in a spy movie, debating whether to go "Nuclear" on a bunch of weeds. The war in the garden is real, folks.

The Grass is Always Greener (If You Drown It)

While the nettles are thriving on neglect, my actual grass is acting like a spoiled celebrity. Three weeks ago, I mowed and re-seeded. The results? Mostly dirt. I think the local birds saw my grass seed as a five-star Michelin buffet. So, this Sunday, I went back at it. Mowed again, seeded again. But this time, I’m not leaving it to fate. I have become a professional irrigator. I am out there every few hours, hose in hand, whispering words of encouragement to the soil. "Stay moist, little buddies. Don’t die on me." I am essentially a high-end spa manager for blades of grass that clearly have no desire to exist.

The Age of Adulthood (and Hangovers)

Saturday night was dedicated to the "Year of 18." My oldest son is at that age where his social calendar is more packed than a Kardashian’s. When you turn 18, all your friends turn 18, which means every weekend is a marathon of "18th Birthday Fests." He had two parties on Saturday. Two. I remember when a busy Saturday meant choosing between The A-Team and Knight Rider. Now, it’s about logistical coordination that would make a military general weep. He spent the night celebrating with his football teammates, and I spent the night wondering how long I could stay awake until he needed a ride. On Sunday, I dragged my tired self to watch our second team’s final match. The stakes were high: avoid defeat or face relegation. In a display of pure grit, they pulled off a 1-0 win. The celebration in the canteen afterwards was... let's just say "enthusiastic."

Bizarro World: When the Sun Tries to Bankrupt You

But the highlight of the weekend was the energy market. We had a perfect storm of heavy sun and high wind. In the world of green energy, this is the "Golden Ratio"—but it comes with a twist. The energy production was so high that prices hit a negative record. At one point, the commodity price was approximately -€0.45 per kWh. Now, in a normal world, having solar panels is like having a money printer on your roof. But in the Bizarro World of negative prices, your solar panels are actually trying to rob you. When prices are negative, you have to pay to push electricity back into the grid. The grid is essentially saying, "We have too much power! If you give us more, we're charging you a disposal fee!" So, I had to stage a domestic intervention. To prevent my solar panels from sending power back to the grid and costing me a fortune, I had to consume every single watt they produced. It was time for a 5-hour strategic charging session for the car. The "Negative Profit" Math Over those 5 hours, I pumped 20 kWh into the car. Here is how the math of madness works out: * 10 kWh came from the grid: At a commodity price of $-€0.45$. Even after adding network fees ($+€0.12$) and taxes ($+€0.06$), the "real cost" was roughly -€0.27 per kWh. So, for those 10 units, the energy company paid me €2.70 to take their electricity. * 10 kWh came from my solar panels: By putting this directly into the car, I avoided "injecting" it into the grid. If I had let that solar power leak out, I would have had to pay the $-€0.45$ commodity fee on it. By "hiding" that energy in my car battery, I saved myself €4.50 in injection penalties. In total, by driving a car that I "refueled" for 5 hours, I ended up about €7.20 richer than if I had done nothing. I essentially got paid to ensure my car is ready for the next round of 18th birthday party taxi shifts. It’s been a long, busy, and surprisingly profitable weekend. April is going out with a bang, and hopefully, my grass—and my Hive balance—will finally start to grow. How was your weekend? Did you manage to make money by plugging things in, or were you too busy fighting a trailer like I was? Let me know in the comments! Cheers, Peter

Weevils on stinging nettle