What a shame we’re going away when the flowers are out, he thought.

The lawn was speckled with daisies, their white spots stretching away past the fountain and the larger flower beds towards the orchard. He knew there was pruning and weeding to do and tried to push it from his mind; he loved gardening but never found enough time to do any. It was one of his main aims for retirement in two years. In the meantime, he was resigned to the fact he would have to get the gardener to come more than once a month.

He went towards the standpipe on the edge of the patio.

“Where’s the bloody hose?” he said out loud to himself. “Surely it hasn’t been put away.”

Tutting in disapproval at the absence of his watering equipment, Harry went back into the house and took his car keys from the box on the telephone table. He then went back across the terrace and out of the side gate, under an arch of climbing red roses to the front, crunching his way along the gravel drive to the garage. One click of the key ring and the automatic doors eased silently open. He walked past the Jaguar – Gosh, it’s really grimy, maybe I should have washed it after all – and started sorting through the garden implements at the back. There’s the hose – but where is that adaptor?

As he stooped over a box of garden tools, his passport fell with a loud plop onto the concrete floor. He scooped it up, shoved it in his inside jacket pocket, and started rummaging through the trowels, pots, secateurs and other implements. Somewhere in here was a small grey piece of plastic that attached his hose to the tap…

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)