Opening time again to the general public. No longer can we piss freely behind hedges, shout at each other through the fog in dinosaur language, swear loudly at the rose snaggings or after standing on unseen new growth. Here in Ireland, the language barrier is great, in that in Ireland it is not unusual at all to include about seventeen ‘fucks’ per sentence. When opening hours arrive, we have to retrain our mouths and brains so as to not render the punters paraplegic with outrage. We also have to de-programme ourselves from the constant stream of inuendo that inhabits every working hour.
Opening hours also means we have to answer a number of extraordinarily predictable questions. Reply in monotones.. or sometimes comedy excitement.
1: “How many of you are there working here?”… answer, 5 full time.
2: “How many acres are here?” answer, 8 acres
3: “What is this?” (pointing at the evil bastard Tropaeolum speciosum suffocating the hedges)..
Strangest question I’ve ever had though was “What’s it like being a woman gardener?”
Answer?… much like being a bloke at a guess, but with tits.