Trade Secrets

Unfortunately the snow didn’t venture this far south.

Which left me fresh out of site clearance excuses.

As I have previously mentioned: I should be in possession of the DNA footprint required for gardening. If not the tools. I have no idea what happened to Granddad Brian’s (RIP) horticultural implements when he left us for the cabbage patch in the sky. He bequeathed me a fruit bowl. It’s a very nice fruit bowl, but it’s usefulness outside of holding fruit are somewhat limited. To the best of my knowledge the stars of Groundforce have never found a use for one on their shows.

In fact, much like you never see Hollywood actors going to the toilet in movies; you never see Charlie and Tommy clearing any stingy things and spiky watchamacallits do you? We only ever get to see the sexy side of gardening where nail guns and water features are the order of the day. So I guess there is a chance they have a fruit bowl on their lorry that they whip out when the cameras aren’t looking. Unless I can get hold of a ‘Groundforce- The Director’s Cut’ DVD, the use for this item in knoll site clearance will have to remain a mystery.

Not to be deterred, I made my way to the garage in the certain knowledge that my genes were of sufficient quality to overcome this problem. I could almost hear Granddad Brian (RIP) whooping an “Attaboy!”

Now I don’t wish to be rude but, if you are of the female persuasion I’ll have to ask you to look away now. You see, I am about to reveal some blokey type stuff to which you should not be privy. Much as you girls never tell us what really goes on at an Ann Summers party; you shouldn’t know what happens when you go off to your mother’s having left us with a ‘project’. All that both sexes are really interested in is the net result; the rest should remain a secret. So bear with me ladies.

Now that we’re alone guys, I’m sure that, like me, you are well aware of the contents of your garage. Just maybe not the exact location of everything. With my bitch at my side, an extensive root around commenced. Five minutes in and she was busy licking her bits while I had turned up:-

Various oily thingummies.
A deck chair.
An unused socket set.
A four pack of beer past it’s sell by date.
An assortment of power tools.
Old copies of Cosmo, dated when Mrs Brian and I were courting.
A dozen half-tins of paint in assorted terracotta shades.
A rusty sickle.
A collection of rock-hard paintbrushes.

Hang on, I’d hit the jackpot! I had a rusty sickle. The previous occupants had clearly not been too vigilant when they had left over a decade earlier. Having left behind such a useful tool I could almost forgive them the dodgy wiring, floral wallpaper and bailiff visits.

Now that I had a tool designed centuries ago for exactly the purpose required, I squared up to the stingy/spiky jungle. My bitch quickly sized up the situation and made for the nearest cover.

With Granddad Brian (RIP) whispering encouragement in my ear.

I took a swing.

(…no peeking yet girls…)