Day 8: Short Straws and Soggy Socks.

 This morning it was raining. Not a light, romantic drizzle either – the kind poets sigh over – but a relentless, straight-down, sideways-blowing, why do I even bother drying my hair? kind of rain.

We all gathered outside, dripping quietly, while George handed out the day’s tasks. The seasoned hands hardly needed telling. They shuffled off like they’d done this dance a hundred times before: the machine operators sloping away to the mower shed to tinker with engines, the rest disappearing into the tool store to do… well, whatever mysterious “tool store business” men get up to on a wet day.

I briefly considered suggesting they give me a crash course in “tool management” (strictly educational, of course). But before I could open my mouth, George’s eyebrows had already made the decision for me.

So, I was dispatched with Ian to find Little Pete in the walled garden. He wasted no time in setting us to the task of washing plant pots in one of the greenhouses. Imagine the glamour: while others got to fiddle with greasy engines and look heroic, I was elbow-deep in muddy water, scrubbing pots like a Victorian scullery maid.

It’s fair to say, I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d been handed the short straw.