Once upon a time, the garden was a sanctuary of golden sunshine, a curated paradise of tropical splendour that basked under the relentless, brilliant light of the Far North. But then the monsoon arrived, bringing with it an endless, heavy grey veil that smothered the sun for weeks on end. The transformation was swift and feral. Under the incessant drumming of the rain, the once-manicured space surrendered to the raw power of the wet. Lantana surged forward like a green tide, its prickly arms strangling anything that got in its way, while waist-high weeds and thick, coarse grass reclaimed everything else. The earth itself became a treacherous, saturated sponge, drinking until it could hold no more. To step into it was to feel the ground yield, the mud so impossibly soft and slick that you would sink ankle-deep with every squelching stride. What was once a sun-drenched haven had dissolved into a tangled, sodden wilderness, waiting breathlessly for the golden light to return and the hope of a Mr Stacky makeover.