“Early in da mornin’,
Massa got me workin’”
Earl Grey Man Friday
After a tad too much Chardonnay and lashings of scrummy home-made pesto Sunday last, I decided to build my own herb garden, in a well-appointed rockery nook at my new abode. I lazily dreamed of a verdant idyll of burgeoning crocuses, iris flowers, and coriander. Somewhere I could drink my morning Earl Grey, read the London Times, and summon the Moroccan boy occasionally from the kitchen to proffer sweetmeats and other attentions I deem necessary.
Sexual Frustration and a Pickaxe
As my recent attempts to woo the fairer sex have been fruitless, I have rather a lot of pent up energy, which if not martialled, could lead to regrettable onanistic misadventures. Never one afraid of hard work*, I set to digging up the rockery with a pickaxe, hacking through Jo’burg granite harder than high school algebra. After 3 hours of this I felt like I’d been building the Zimbabwe Ruins by hand.
My hands! My Hands! My soft, petal-like piano player’s hands! Hands that have done nothing more arduous than clicking a mouse, and once, feverishly unclasping a 33C bra strap back in 2004- now look like feet. Calloused, cracked, Eulactol Heel Balm™ campaign poster boy feet.
The Sweet Sweat of Others
I have offered a keen chap from the local nursery a bright, shiny, shilling to finish the bulk of the digging. I am now sitting on the couch, drinking a smooth, salubrious red, and watching his labours with enormous satisfaction.
*Preferably done by someone else in the distance, in a country with green in its flag, and legions of willing, cheap, labour.