I went to a tool shop not far from my home and asked for the gardening section. “What kind of gardening do you have in mind?” the shop attendant asked me. I shrugged my shoulders, and he pointed the way. He was alone in the shop, and so I met him again at the till. All I had with me was a huge branch-clipper and a pair of large shears for trimming of foliage. “Gardening is not my cup of tea,” I grinned. He smiled back crookedly. “My garden is abroad,” I mumbled by way of apology as he was wrapping the horrendous tools. After all, Britain is a country of gardeners.

Addendum (October 11, 2003)

The sun was setting when I spotted a soggy newspaper in the garden under my terrace. As I never buy newspapers, the wind must have blown it from my neighbor’s terrace. When I walked down to the garden, I realized there were too many leaves, flowers, branches, and even fruits in my way. I could see many a crooked thorn, too. And then I remembered the gardening tools I had selected with such loving care. They turned out to be just what I needed: I cut a path to the newspaper with ease and joy. As I had guessed, the newspaper was from Britain, where my neighbor and her occasional guests come from. Come to think of it, this story could not have been rounded off more nicely.