Wayne the gardener came today. He's a very versatile young man.
We first met when he came to name all the trees in our new garden,
which he did at a furious pace, with Mr. S. (the husband) trotting
after him as his gnome-like amanuensis, frantically scribbling
botanical names phonetically. I've been trying to decode their
joint efforts ever since.
Today, what we really needed was someone to move furniture.
Cue Wayne. He said he'd come after lunch. After lunch
turned out to be 4.30PM, and the smell of alcohol when I opened the
door was overpowering. Not that I was going to pass comment, at
least until after he'd moved the furniture.
Wayne is tall, skinny, and looks like a cross between The Man from
Snowy River, and a serial killer. Slit-eyed, rolly hanging from
the corner of his mouth, and a beanie rammed firmly over his eyebrows,
he's normally not the talkative type.
Today, however, he is in the grip of the singing syrup, and he refuses
to stop talking. He moves the furniture around with an ease that
beggars belief, then demolishes a further two beers, talking
non-stop. He begins by whinging about how hard he is
working. "Maaate" , he says, " aw mate, I've got to go bush
- the pressure of work is getting me down. I can't cope with the
hours." This from someone in his condition strikes me as a bit
rich, but at least he's finished moving the furniture, so I tentatively
suggest that perhaps another beer might help him relax. Wayne
allows that another beer might in fact do the trick, and in an
instant, he is installed in front of the fire like he's been there all
our lives, and telling us the story of his.
It turns out that it's a two beer story, involving many highways and
by-ways, but mainly involving doing unpleasant things to pigs from the
back of utes, trout fishing, dirt-bike riding, and other boys own
adventures. All of which appears to have been brought to a halt
by the arrival of Mrs. Wayne, followed in fairly quick succession by
two children.
Family responsibilities weigh heavily on young Wayne - alas not enough
to cause him to get up and go home to them. Nevertheless, we get
a very considered view of Wayne's approach to fatherhood. Both
children are girls, and they appear to have been introduced to the
business end of a shovel at a very early age.
By now my attention is wandering, and in order to head off another
beer, I decide to try to steer the subject back to work. I
suggest to Wayne that we (or, more correctly, he) should dig up the
lawn, and plant a rose-garden. This has the desired effect, and
shortly thereafter Wayne staggers off into the darkness, promising to
call us in the morning with a quote.
That was two weeks ago. No phone call. No quote. I am
being forced to the view that Wayne was so deeply in the grip of the
grape that he has forgotten all about me.
Or maybe he's gone bush. Lucky sod!
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Change of Life 
