“Sorry, but we’ve bad news for you.”
The moment the ominous words were oot his gob, I kint I was in for a naisty shock.
The younger of my beloved father-and-son gardeners then cut deep: “We’ll be here one last time, then we’re giving up. Starting our own smallholding. Trying to be self-sufficient.”
Stuff that for a bag o’ strong manure. This decrepit self is niver gan tae be sufficient for my pretty-bigholding. My hairtie sank. Then, fit an embarrassment, I started pleading: “But surely you could keep on just me, your favourite customer?” (How they tittered.) “For old time’s sake?”
Sadly, son J and dad K, from deepest Kincardineshire, shook their soddin’ heids. I’m shattered to face being without these guys who’ve done so much for me over the decade-plus I’ve had them. All at an extremely reasonable price – in fact, probably undercharged, but fa’ wis I tae point it oot?
I got them on the recommendation of a friend after my last gardener moved away. I was never a huge fan. A bit sense of humour-challenged. Nae chuffed when I said he was the dead spit of Harry Enfield, which I thought was a compliment. And the fence he fitted kept bla’in doon.
Big J and wee K were a breath of fresh air, always good for a laugh, even when their ancient Land Rover often broke doon or the wheels came aff their trailer bogey. As well as the regular fortnightly maintenance during spring and summer, they turned their talented hands to ony jobbie I desired.
How do you replace the Irreplaceables?
When I sent away for a huge swing and chute set for my grandtoots, then discovered no one in the family had the foggiest how to build it, they spent a day with hunners of bits of timber all over the grass, putting it together to perfection, for only a pucklie pounds. Thanks, loons.
They felled a small forest of huge firs at the bottom of the garden and planted a second lawn, now my grandson’s adored football pitch. Mair tas. Removed the ancient patio set and put together the new one. Recently built a superb fence.
Now I know why a wifie really, really needs a husband
Inside my hoosie, they’ve sorted wonky door handles and kitchen drawers, carted off loadsa junk from the garage; even fixed broken table lamps and other electricals. No extra charge. Spik aboot my Men Friday.
Nae wonder I’m bereft at losing them. How do you replace the Irreplaceables?
Above all, I need my regular mowing; no way Erchie am I rootin’ oot my old push-me-pull-you to up-and-doon the lawns. Now I know why a wifie really, really needs a husband.
So far, finding my new gardener is nae that easy. My pal – who’s also lost J and K – found a woman who was due to pop in last week. Never turned up.
I’ve had three recommended. One’s oot the door wi’ work. No reply from the others. Nightmare visions of my grass growin’ as high as an elephant’s eye…
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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