A grey-haired man is standing in the garden next to a green bin, a pair of secateurs is grasped in his tanned, muscular hand, and with them he is calmly shredding the shrubbery that he has so far removed into 4" (10cm) lengths, so as not to fill the green bin too quickly. Occasionally a look of concern will eclipse his ruggedly masculine features as he contemplates whether it is the shrubbery that is actually holding the fence up.
The unnatural February sun is warm on his hands as they ply the secateurs, the rueful smile that plays across his lips as he encounters a particularly reluctant twig is prompted by the knowledge that the arthritis in his hands is going to play merry hell, unnatural sun or no. Smaller twigs he leaves on the ground as a boon to nesting birds (expect new posting soon, called "Bloody Birds").
Soon it will be time to go in and press his tofu, but for the moment he passes an hour in sylvan slicing, while trying to incorporate "O tempura, o mores" into something about Japanese health professionals. Later he will discover that "o mores" has nothing to do with death and will therefore give up the idea.
