Sitting in my kitchen, enjoying a quiet cup of tea, wearing my favorite kimono, I was surprised to see Ali hurrying through the gate in the fence between my garden and my neighbors. Ali, you’ll remember is my wonderful gardener. He’s a Syrian refugee, and the nicest man you can imagine.
He bustled into the kitchen looking flustered.
“It’s Marjorie,” he said looking worried. “She has the most terrible infestation!”
“She has?” I said, a little puzzled.
“Yes, in her bush. It’s very distressing.”
“Well, it would be,” I replied.
Ali is a gardener, but he was a professor at Damascus University prior to the war. He is very knowledgeable about botany. When it comes to making my garden bloom, he’s sure to be all over it.
“If her problem spreads to our garden it’s going to be horrible. Aphids are little monsters! I think I should take care of it. If I don’t everyone in Huckleberry Close is going to get it.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” I said.
Sure enough, later that evening, when Sylvester and Bernard were over enjoying a drink with me at the end of the day, Ali came back happily convinced he’d resolved the issue. He had used some sprays, a little trimming and Marjorie’s bush was looking very thoroughly groomed.
Well, done, Ali,” I said. “After rooting around in Marjory’s bush all afternoon, I think you deserve a little clap.”
As you can see, my life is never dull. .