Gardening without gloves

From the first sip of tea on the second date, he knew Lady Smock was a gift from the heavens, the way she blew on the rouged surface as though extinguishing a bolide. His mind wandered to a conjugal bed where sleeping would be an afterthought. Well, a man can dream, can’t he? He blamed it on the invitation to dine on sausage rolls on their first date. Who could resist a woman who ate rich sausages hidden in buttery pastry and didn’t fret about the calorie consequences?

“What do you know about amending acidic soil, Harry?” Lady Smock’s left eyebrow rose, following her voice into a question mark.

Harry knew squat about gardening. He hated getting his hands dirty, afterwards scraping his nails clean, scrubbing grime from his dried finger pads. Gardening was a penance. Yes, he loved flowers but that’s why florists exist. But he’d read – “Poultry droppings are just the ticket”, he replied, not knowing her hen-house needed a good mucking out.

They left together, discussing pH balance and the risks of gardening without gloves.

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