What makes a day worth living? Pond Man never asks such questions. A day is just a day as he is. Pure existence.

He comes and he goes through his front door, over the hoed garden (she is still waiting for more)out through the criss-crossed fence he built last year and recently mended. He goes to work, and his work is always there. Just there, thanks to the people of the town, there on the ground, look down.

Pond Man is a groundsman. The ground is his work as the ground is all our work. He digs and he hoes and he throws away sprawling timbers, the ones left out to rot, lopped and forgotten by the side of the road, abandoned by the council. Someone else will clear them away. Always someone else -

Pond Man —

He pulls up weeds; turns and tills the soil; plants out bulbs; prunes eager trees; designs borders; plants out shrubs and flowers, bulbs, always bulbs; secures crumbling walls; holds the hands of genteel ladies with a garden to plan. Bulbs, bulbs, bulbs. ‘Where do you think is best? There, or there? Is that too close to the house? Will they be seen there? Will I be seen there? —

Clears up forgotten alleyways and twitten; sweeps up leaves; gathers up the rubbish; reclaims parts of the land you never thought you had. Land you have never seen. Small corners of green.

‘Detritus.’

‘Yes Ma’am,’

‘Whatever you think is best, Ma’am . . .’

Pond Man is placatory, he is polite, but he does what he knows because he knows the place, the land better than you or I— he is born and bred.

But I have not answered the question. What makes a day worth living? In truth, I am still considering but I know some of it must be spent with Pond Man, with my feet in the soil.