It’s early Sunday morning when I notice the padlock open on the side gate. That can only mean one thing: our upstairs neighbour, Mr C, is already out in our shared back garden. 

It’s a glorious day here in southern England, the end of spring and the early signs of summer. The sun is just starting to sit higher in the sky, and I can hear the nearby residents getting their gardens ready for the warmer months ahead. That’s partly on the agenda for me too, though for now, the bigger priority is starting the process of emptying the garden shed for dismantling — long overdue after weeks of ill health. 

Mentally, this here feels like a kind of worship of God’s love. Being out with his creations, even if I’m not technically supposed to be working. 

As I swung open the garden gate, Mr C’s daughter, Rose, spots me and grins. If time with her Dad makes the start of a good weekend for her, then seeing Master Levi and I clearly completes it. 

“Elena!” she calls, “Daddy’s not out here, he’s on the toilet,” she says. I have to laugh — kids and their brutal honesty.

I open the gate to my part of the garden, and Rose follows. So we end up sat by the pond with me talking to her until her Dad gets back. 

When he eventually returns, he spots her, and he spots me. He knows this arrangement — he’s cooked. 

“Alright?” Mr C says to me, “you causing trouble?” he asks Rose. I know who he means, but I can’t help myself.

“Do I ever stop?” I grin. He laughs. Rose laughs too.

“This is true,” he says. 

Mr C notices my steel toe cap clogs and comments on them, says not to let his “minion” see them because he’ll want some to wear “on site”. I’m surprised that he’s noticed them — I don’t personally look at people’s shoes when I’m talking to them. 

“How very perceptive of you,” I tease. He blushes. 

I need to get on, but I get the feeling these two aren’t going to let me escape that easily. 

A small Cessna-type plane flies overhead and Rose points it out. 

“Somebody’s going on vacation,” she says. 

It amazes me that she knows what ‘vacation’ means — she’s only just turned seven — though I have to admit that she seems remarkably bright for her age. Again she makes me smile. 

“Probably not in that one,” I say, “that’s not a big plane, and you’d need a big plane to cross a big sea. Look! Shall we see where it’s going?” I ask, pulling out my phone. I remember that I have FlightRadar24 on my phone, because curious people are curious sometimes, and I often take a keen interest in where the planes that fly over my garden are going or coming from. 

Rose nods and sits next to me on the garden bench. We find the plane on the map. 

“So there we go, we can’t see where it’s going, but it’s flown from near Exeter,” I explain. “It looks like it’s just doing a leisure flight, not really going anywhere” I add. Rose doesn’t care; she’s completely mesmerised. 

We end up tracking some other aircraft together: bigger planes, international flights, gliders and helicopters. Rose loves that the propellers on the helicopter logos “rotate”. 

I set our parasol up to create some shade, then I leave Rose to track flights while I do some work on the shed. She gets bored eventually and returns her attention to kicking her football around.

I’m barely two metres from her when she manages to put her foot on the ball, rolling backwards and hitting her head on the concrete path. There was nothing I could do but watch on in horror. 

Mr C consoles her through her tears, though he’s also aware of me. 

“You alright now?” he asks Rose. “I think you surprised yourself more than anything,” he says of her, “though you also gave poor Elena a heart attack.” He grins at me, I cock my head and glare at him. You don’t have to be an ass. 

We wind up working the front and back gardens, and I explain my updated front garden plan to Mr C – I’m moving the jasmine plant near to his front door with a trellis climbing frame behind it. He doesn’t miss the detail. 

“So let me get this straight,” he begins. I already know what’s coming and I shush him right away. 

“You got rid of a trellis last week, now you bought a new one? Explain the logic, please?”. He’s got that stupid grin about him again.

“There’s none,” I say, “it’s Little Mrs Organised being… not so organised”. He shrugs off that conclusion. 

“At least you’re honest about it,” he says. 

I never did get half of what I planned to do, done, but what I did do instead was spend a lovely few hours with the four of us in the back garden. Mr C is grateful too – Rose tires herself out playing football with Master Levi, and it leaves him and I to crack on with other things…

And chat, because even when I try to work in the shed, the man can’t help but start a conversation with me.

The really damning part is, as I cleared one shelf unit, took it out and pulled forward the next, I could see daylight in the far corner. No amount of steel wool and wood filler had fixed the issue – as we’d repaired one hole, the rats had made another. 

So my late father’s shed now has to be condemned. It’s saddening and it will be emotional to let it go, but I’m already thinking about what to put in its place. I’m fighting myself not to extend the pontoon lights, add more seating and a fire pit — a kind of outdoor conversation nook, as it were. I blame the hopeless romantic in me.

Talking of decisions, I’ve also given up on the breakfast smoothies —I made a strawberry, banana and spinach smoothie this morning and it was positively vile. So I’ve decided to stop trying to force myself to drink two of my five a day, and I‘m going to incorporate them more normally instead. 

Kinda. 

I didn’t know bananas count as one, so a no-added-sugar choco-banana smoothie before bed counts as one, and could help me sleep better to boot. Biscoff spread mixed with a splash of warm water makes a wonderful dipping sauce for a sliced apple with my lunch, that’s two. I can throw in two of my five a day into dinner and cook them down, that leaves one more. 

Oh yeah, a glass of plain ol’ OJ in the morning. Done!