Day One: Me, Ian, and a Bag of Rubbish.

 They eased me in gently. No roses to prune, no ancient yew maze to tame, no dazzling displays of horticultural brilliance. Just… litter picking.

At 6:45 a.m., bleary-eyed, clutching a coffee that tasted more like regret than caffeine, I set off down the drive to work. On arrival I was handed a grabber stick, and introduced to Ian. “You’ll be with him today,” the head gardener said. Then he raised an eyebrow in a way that made me feel this was some kind of test.

Ian is a man of few words. The sort of few words that carry the weight of someone who has seen things. Important things. Like crisp packets in hedgerows and plastic bottles wedged into ornamental fountains. We walked in silence for a bit, the only soundtrack the crunch of gravel and my internal monologue screaming: *What am I doing with my life?

But then something shifted. Maybe it was the way Ian neatly speared a rogue Fanta can from under a rose bush. Maybe it was the conspiratorial smile he gave me when we discovered a very suspicious pair of trousers abandoned by the ha-ha wall (don’t ask). Or maybe it was just the pure, simple satisfaction of filling a bin bag until it was gloriously, triumphantly full.

By mid-morning, I was oddly… content. There’s something strangely meditative about scouring the gardens for other people’s discarded chaos. And while it wasn’t exactly “birds singing under dappled sunlight,” there was a kind of peace in it. A rhythm. Even a little pride.

Ian, for his part, remains an enigma. Does he think I’m hopeless? Probably. Did he notice me almost fall into a rhododendron while reaching for a Coke bottle? Definitely. But he didn’t laugh. He just handed me the bag and said, “Good one.” Reader, I swooned.

So there it is. Day one: not glamorous, not Instagram-worthy, but undeniably real. I came home smelling faintly of damp plastic and triumph. Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe I’ll graduate to hedge trimming. Or maybe just more trousers by the ha-ha.

Stay tuned. 🌱