I have a customer who likes to chat. I hit his house first thing, and he brings me out a cup of tea at about 7.30 before heading off to the City where, he says, he does something very boring but very lucrative. The tea is Earl Grey. He told me PG Tips is builders’ tea; Earl Grey is gardeners’ tea.
I find his cigar butts at the back of the borders, where their stink mingles with that of the dog fox that slinks off as I arrive.
I clearly intrigue him. He wonders why his gardener has a house as good as his and sends his kids to public schools. I told him I live off my wife, but he seems to want to know more.
This week, as I slapped the mosquitoes that love the wet and unseasonably fuggy early mornings off my bare legs, he told me about an opera he’d been to see. He knows I speak a bit of Italian – his is much better than mine - and often tries out a phrase or two on me. The opera was La Finta Giardiniera, apparently an early work by Mozart.
“It translates as The Pretend Gardener,” he told me, and chuckled. “It could be about you.”
“Ah, “I said, “I’m more The Accidental Gardener.”
Just then his wife came out.
She likes to chat too, but usually after her husband has headed for the tube.
She often tells me about her day, from which the services of me, a cleaner, a nanny and Waitrose home delivery have removed all possible tasks. She fills the acres of freed-up time with the gym, tanning and other treatments and courses of self improvement.
“You seem to be in no hurry today,” she said to her husband.
“Well, he replied, “I’m surreptitiously hurrying.”
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