Red-faced and angry, you shout, “I’m not paying you that – it’s twice the minimum wage !” Actually it’s more than that, but I don’t comment. I could try to explain to you the costs of running my business, but I know you have already decided what I am worth. I let you finish your tirade and politely excuse myself. A week later you call to say you’ve changed your mind. Sadly there is no space in my diary. I won’t be working for you.
Thankfully, most of my customers are lovely. They appreciate the work I do and pay me promptly. Their gardens are in far better shape than my own; I don’t have the energy or inclination by the end of the week.
I have a granny fan club. Often I’m the only person they’ll see all day. I enjoy our little chats and cups of tea, and tales of the past and dearly missed husbands. You have taught me to appreciate the love of my wife and to savour the beauty of life.
My nemeses include pyracantha, mahonia and especially berberis, whose lethal spines can pierce the strongest gloves. I detest those silly little solar lamps that occasionally meet a grisly end at the blades of my mower (sorry about that). I’m also wary of clients with dogs – I have learned the hard way to keep my mouth shut when I’m strimming.
I lean on my spade and ponder the past. The office job. The commute. The sociopathic boss. My breakdown. Crying in despair in a dark corner of Waterloo station on a miserable winter evening. I snap back to the present, I feel the sunshine on my skin, warming my soul. My shoulders ache, my arms bear the scars of battles with brambles, but it doesn’t matter: life is good.
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