Mark went back to work and I carried on creating opulence all by myself.
I had to go to the tip first, because of a collection of debris from the clear-out of Mark’s shed, but after that I went to the farm.
I dug out ten bags of soil. Mark cleared all this several years ago when he was constructing his wood yard, and it has been sitting ever since in an enormous heap at the side of the garden, piled up underneath several layers of ancient carpet. It is black, and rich, and crumbly, and smells good.
After that I went down to the stream to collect some moss for our mossy pillars.
I tried as hard as I could to be discreet, but it was to no avail at all. The sheep saw me before I had even properly set off, and instantly set up the most enormous racket. Dozens of them came belting across the fell to see what I was doing, and before I was even halfway down the field there was a long stream of them in my wake, as if I were a sort of ovine Pied Piper.
The dogs shuddered and slunk along at my heels miserably, trying not to be trodden on as the sheep shoved and jostled to see what I was doing. I turned round and waved at them to go away, but they were having none of it, and stood interestedly beside me as I balanced precariously on the stepping stones at the side of the stream, trying to see if they could perhaps eat my jacket.
I did not fall in. Roger Poopy was not so lucky. I think he decided that the icy water was the lesser of the two evils.
I took a picture of them.
In the end it was done, and I hauled the whole lot home. I am not sorry not to be at work at the moment, because my taxi is going to need some fairly serious cleaning out. Sacks and sacks of sheep poo have not improved its general ambiance.
I have spent the last day or two slowly filling up the conservatory flower beds with a variety of different soils, and they are almost done. Apart from the bags of soil from the farm, of which I have hauled about twenty so far, there have been a dozen or so bags of sheep muck, and our own home-produced compost, which is a worm-filled blend of carrot peelings and melon rind.
We were contemplating this mixture with some pleasure, having added some crushed calcified stuff to it for lime, and were struck by the inspired recollection that we had a box of our very own home-produced potash as well.
Of course we have never quite got round to doing anything much with Mark’s dad, whose ashes have rested in a box on the top of the grandfather clock for ages.
He would make good potash, we thought, and probably be quite pleased at being put to such good use. He had, after all, been a farmer all of his life, and being mixed in with soil and used to grow tomatoes would probably have struck him as a good idea.
We considered this for a while, not being quite certain whether or not it is a respectable thing to use one’s dead relatives as an economy measure, to save on the purchase of garden fertiliser.
Obviously after a minute or two we decided that it was, and Mark went to get him.
This was when we discovered that we had, in fact, forgotten where we had put him.
He was not on top of the grandfather clock any more. We must have moved him for something, but where we have put him, neither of us can remember.
We could not use Mark’s dead father to fertilise the tomato beds, because we have lost him.
Can I warn all readers at this point that we are clearly not responsible enough to be entrusted with human remains, and if you are thinking of dying, after Mark has shrunk back down into his suit, it would probably be better to ask somebody else to deal with the administration.
The only thing to be said in our defence is that it is most unlikely that Mark’s father would have been any better organised himself, which is clearly where Mark gets it from.
I will have to have a look for him tomorrow.
