The Garden Fork

It's a slow start after the party. I'm in the mood to do jobs I have put off for ages, like vacuuming my car which is feral after so many trips transporting stuff. A clean interior lifts my spirits. Some days it doesn't take much. I head for my garden. I'm still sorting out the dirt in front of the fence where the garage was. The fork rings as it hits a hard object and I get the spade out to dig as this implacability extends in all directions. Turns out it's a huge slab of concrete which, once it's loose, I can hardly budge. With a mammoth effort I get it to the top of the hole I've dug and eye up the ivy trunk sitting nearby. I pick up the fork, stab and lever upwards. The fork is embedded in the wood and as I push up one of the prongs snaps off. Damn. The fork is my most used garden implement. It's hot and I shovel dirt into the wheel barrow and dump it in the hole. Five loads later I'm hot, tired and smelly.
I drive to Waimairi Beach. At 6:30 I have it to myself. After dark I head to one of Pete and Trudi's world famous in Christchurch live music parties. The house is heaving with musos rocking on against a backdrop of city lights. The line of Colombo Street stretches from the hills to the horizon. Dead straight to the dead Christchurch Cathedral.

The smell of wet concrete is fading, replaced wood