In 2008/2009 I was drifting tired of gardening, not physically up to it, struggling to keep a skeletal 'service' going. My friend Estapona offered to broker as my life coach to help me make a bold new step.
In September of that year not long into the outstretching millenium there was Miss Bearchard to work for and she was all right to begin but then she got on her high horse. Or was it a donkey that was pleased to see her. I can't be sure. She had a straightforward wisteria at the front of the house with clematis growing through it. There was no challenge. Strove, Tuilerie Belgium's manager or promoter but I was never sure but I liked him and his kitchen juke box, lived in Crunching Road meanwhile and had a wisteria that was facing strong sunshine all day long and was extremely vigorous in its growth. One of my clients, an actress called Parker, got me in to cut the grass and tidy up the front and back. Not much of a challenge. I told her my brother had done equestrian stunt work in one of her best dramas (Song and Dance, a little known novel by an utter bore and a complete nobody) but she was not that interested. She barely arched an eyebrow. Her boyfriend, called McTan, offered me his season ticket at Ullapool but never came good on the arrangement and didn't return my calls. I recall that I lent him a copy of Privates Toad which Bryce Rolinson, who had directed P.M in Witless and Me, had been an actor in the film which was made by a friend of mine called Bernie Platypres. Mr McTan was initially friendly but later after the season ticket shambles he refused to talk to me whilst running around Prickham Hye in his highly coiffured hair and fashionably tight running outfit one sunny day. I think I wished some schadenfreude on him. Ms Parker meanwhile was keen on yoga and meditation and was very sweet and kind, she became neighbours of one of my 6th cousins, the Toga family, and put artificial grass on their front drive. Highly original that one. Yawn.
Later in September as the many shades of green turned to other colours I did some wisteria work on a garden in Berry Road for a jolly chap called Lon married to an attractive lady with luscious lips called Apricot Myrtle. In October there was that incredible dullard Hank Mullins in Spinkington, he was, truth be told, an absolute knob who cared more about his collection of matchbox cars than the time of day but to give him some credit he was good enough to employ me to prune his climbers. His neighbour was a strange actor called Visage with a flat and broad nose who was rather full of himself and despite employing me had what I call a deep sincerity gap. Fucking actors I thought to myself.
'Fucking actors we're like Millwall FC, no-one loves us but we actually really care deep down'. I groaned visibly at that one.
'Have you got any spare bin bags?' I said feigning interest all the while.
There was also the sad and lonely Monsieur Feather who was a miser and very old, crooked and bent. He kept his piles of cash in the cupboard under his pants and was a very kind and sweet man to me. Once while cutting his sloping lawn I saw a bird of prey, possibly one of London's rare bald eagles ( I'm not good at spotting birds of prey), swooped down and started munching on a Sainsbury's/Morrison's/Tesco's supermarket chicken only feet away in the neighbouring garden. The eagle/buzzard/falcon found the chicken revolting and puked it all up. It obviously wasn't organic I said to Mr Feather. He barely registered a titter but he was a kindly man.
