Eric the Gardener

“Mornin gals! Har yew all roight, my wommun?”

“Morning Eric, I’m very well thanks. How are you?”

“Gaw, thass coold outsoide t’day, hint et?”

“Yep. Definitely parky this morning, but at least its sunny. And you look to be well wrapped up.” *indicates the reversible green waterproof jacket, held together with baling twine round his middle, over a cable-knit cardi of an indeterminate colour and a proper cotton vest.*

“That I am, Trussie, that I am. Wull, ye’ve gotta be prepared, hint ya? Weev git 500 tulips an 250 crocisses to git in t’day afore that gits any coolder.”

*turns round to other desk*

“Gaw, there’s nuthin of ya, gal. You wa-ah git a bit o’ blood puddin in yer, ha yoursef a nice bit o’ sausage fer breakfast.”

This last to my colleague who is a) vegetarian and b) has an eating disorder.

Eric – rightly – has no truck with either.

Then he cut his fingernails with a knife into a waste-paper bin beside my desk (I hastily provided the bin as he began the procedure), bade us both a good day and went back outside to rake up fallen leaves into hedgehog-friendly piles.

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