Further Trials of a Gardener's Wife

Yesterday, our lovely neighbour presented us with some "thinned out" peas and beans from his large vegetable plot... it was either us or the compost heap, apparently. I'm not sure how I feel about that!Anyway, this prompted Fereday to make a visit to the wonderland of tools, screws 'n nails, bits o' wood, etc. that is the local Wickes builders merchants. (Avoid this place at all costs - it's where your shopping sensibilities go to die.) He returned some 45 minutes later (what does he find to do in that place, it's only 5 minutes down the road) with 5 planks and 4 bags of compost ( and while I would dearly love to give into the comedy spirit and finish this list as follows: 3 splinters, 2 bruises, and a partridge in a pear tree, I won't - the splinters and bruises came later)."I'm going to build a trough for those beans!"It was announced with the same gusto as Brian Blessed saying he was going to climb Everest.It was met by my bemused expression and a hesitant, "oh,... okay, then." - it was the best I could do to mask the fact that I was now wondering where I had put the first aid box.Here, I must explain. Fereday is a wonderful gardener - he has forgotten more about plants than most people know (LJ members excepted, of course). He is not, however, noted for his carpentry skills. A more than reasonable assembler of wooden compost bins, yes. A rival to Chippendale, decidely not. But, bless him, he has heart.Up from the cellar (where we keep his other toy, the washing machine) came the circular saw, the electric screwdrivers and drills, the wonky work bench, and various bits and pieces. This was followed by a frantic search for my dress-makers tape and a pencil. Meanwhile, I was securing the pot plants on the path and generally "clearing the decks". Fereday would happily start work with the Mizuna pot stuck under the work bench - he was very eager.Finally, work began.... halfway through cutting the second plank, the circular saw gave a nasty "pop", let off an even nastier smell, and was - in short - consigned back to it's box to be returned to Wickes for transport to the powertool graveyard. It was at this point that I knew, had my wonderfully handy father still been alive, that he would have seen fit to send Fereday to get him a beer out of the fridge - this was my father's way of getting someone out of his way so that he could get on with the job properly.The (much safer, in my opinion) hand saw emerged from the cellar and work recommenced (much more quietly). The under-charged drills and screwdrivers also gave up the ghost, and Fereday was left to finish his trough with an old-fashioned "Fereday-powered" hand drill.After a good hour or so, a "rustic" trough emerged from the cloud of sawdust and was planted up. It's really quite a good little job, and I'm hoping to keep Fereday busy and out from under foot this afternoon because I've set him to building a smaller version for some geraniums with the left over wood. But, more importantly, Fereday's little sojourn as "Handy Andy" made me think about my Dad and smile. He's a good guy, that Fereday, just like my Dad.

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