My client came tottering across the vast expanse of carefully striped lawn in a pair of heels that probably cost more than I make in a week. I stopped planting the wrong plant in the wrong spot that she had insisted upon, and awaited her arrival.
“I’m going out now,” she said, suspiciously eyeing up the hole I’d dug. “I won’t be able to pay you today unless you can come back around eight tonight? I don’t have any cash.”
She hadn’t paid me for the last four weeks but I assured her it was OK, and she could pay me next time. She nodded and waved her hand dismissively “Can you also check the gutter outside the study window. I think it’s leaking.”
The Guardian: The secret life of a gardener: backache, stroppy clients and know-alls – but I love it
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