In my daydreams this is not my garden at all but that of some well-to-do widow whose demands proved too strenuous for her late husband, and i am merely the hired help, spending my days keeping her foliage well-groomed, ensuring that her pretty little bush is always immaculately trimmed and worthy of loving inspection.

She idly watches my happy toil from the summer house, a playful smile on her lips as she sips something long and cool, passing the odd flattering comment about the quality of my onions, the girth of my marrow or the knowing manner in which i tend her soft fruits.

The day draws on in this pleasant fashion until the afternoon sun beats down so hard that i remove my shirt, drawing my belly in every time i feel her mischievous eyes upon my bare skin which prompts the good lady to express her sudden peckishness and desire for something rather more substantial than the cucumber sandwich that lays untouched on the dish before her.

If i may ask a favour of you, she says whilst wandering back towards the cool of the house, i have an especially delicate and precious pink orchid in my bedroom which i'd be most keen for you to examine. Perhaps you could pop along in ten minutes or so..?

As i say, i'm only the humble gardener and in no position to refuse such a request of a fine damsel in need of attention and therefore i dutifully keep my appointment in her boudoir with the thought of turning my green-fingers to somewhat less horticultural tasks...