Second Thing. Moles, Moles, Moles.

Right. I will begin the story "in media res" just like ol' what's-his-name.

Picture an old Manor house (listed - it's true - in the Domesday book). 40 acres of pruned lawn, statuary, and oddly tilting trees owing to the fierce North Sea wind. A moat, an orangerie, plenty of Lime trees and all manner of adjacent cottages, gatehouses, etc. I'll talk about the Main House later.

My first day I was introduced to the head gardener Geoffrey. An odd little man who wore a tweed jacket even while piling compost. He'd enjoy his little plowman's lunch - packed always in a greasy bag - under a tree and crunch on apples. He was paid in cash by the nuns (a small envelope of coins every Friday after the 4:00 Sherry which was straight outta Lisbon), and would bike back to his home in the neighboring village which had the comical and utterly misleading name of Fornham-All-Saints.

The first day, after jet-lag and a terrible headache (owing to a misadventure wherein my bags were briefly confiscated after I was misidentified as an IRA trooper - more on that later), I looked for him in the West Garden.

"Hello Geoffrey. My name is David."

I stretched out my hand. No other hand offered, he simply said:

"Davy? Davy Jones? Well do you have a locker?", and then laughed and walked away.

From then on, I was known as "Davy".

Lost and frankly weirded-out, I walked back into the Main House. Right then, I ran into a problem that would be an endless vortex of confusion. You see, the obnoxious house-cat was also named Geoffrey.

Whenever I asked about Geoffrey or his whereabouts, I would hear things like:

"Oh, he's hidin' in the dustbin."
"That little devil slew my hen!"
"Oh, he just nicked the kippers!"

I suppose the bipedal Geoffrey was capable of all these things - I just don't know.

In any case, I later found him in the nearby woods (just by that placid pond, sigh, rumored to be haunted by a drowner - more on that later). He had a shotgun and was aiming for squirrels. Except he didn't call them squirrels: to him they were "tree rats". "I hate the lot of them. Worse than the Irish!"

But his main hatred was reserved for moles. Moles, moles, moles. Everywhere - grinding up the lovely turf with their tiny galleries. I must say that after a time I started to get quite upset as well. It was difficult seeing our efforts for the perfect lawn uprooted every day.

So, in any case, I ended my first day as a gardener sitting down with Geoffrey (no, not the naughty one) and admiring the many moles he trapped. More on this later.









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