A Strong and Willing Lad

I am waiting for the gardener to come - Mary's gardener, and I eagerly accepted her offer. There is a rat's nest of clippings on the waterline I don't want to touch, and I NEED wire to stop the cat thoroughfare under the house unless I want to turn my new beds into a litter tray (Suscipe I can forgive, it is the visitors I resent). Then the posts whacked in along the front - oh, he'll be busy.

I have trimmed the tree at the front, just one heavy branch out to let filtered light through, and shifted the 1/2 cubic yard of soil from truck to path, bucket by bucket. I want the lad to do the things I can't do even by creeping up on them.

Last night mum reminded me of my delight in the music student who did heavy work for me at Park Village. He was built like John Ridd of Lorna Doone, and I so enjoyed watching him heave half a barrow-load with every cut that my friends became concerned. It wasn't lust, it was the luxury of seeing how easy it was for him when it cost me all my effort. He broke many spades with his great splayed feet. Lovely boy.