Easter on my bum in the rhubarb bed

The sun smiles, the dry sky like a wall smeared with Dulux testers, offers shades of white, blue and grey, a couple of hours at the allotment is our plan. I pile on a camisole, two T shirts, a fleece, finally a coat as outer protection.

I dip my toe outside the back door, the cold bites my nose, hat and gloves follow. Flutters of excitement tickle my insides. Today the final bed will be made and we will lay the green carpet. 

Owen arrives to steer the project, Mr H has planned the makeover, I am the tea lady and conductor. Sawing and drilling drowns out birds singing when like magic, the boys turn wood into the ninth bed. I wave my stick at the dips in the ground as they rake the paths.

People passing smile and call out: 

we like the work the supervisor is doing... are you selling deck chairs...

I insist the boys take a photo of me at each milestone, I  take photos of the boys on tea breaks; in between photo shoots I rest my bum on my green sunny deckchair. I am allocated the best standing still job, shovelling fresh horse manure from a barrow into the compost bin... peg on my nose.

I try my chance at spreading fish blood and bone between the beds, the powder settles on my boots and trousers, the pungent odour makes my workers cough. I trundle from bed to bed, wobble, grab at thin air, shout I'm going...bum on the rhubarb... I call for rescue...  

The carpet is ready to be laid, I stand from my chair. Owen drops the first roll onto the ground. Like a member of the Royal Family planting a tree I roll it out in a straight line smiling at the camera Mr H holds.

Grinning; Take more photos...

The carpet transforms the site from bare, muddy floorboards to a room at the Ritz. I hope I bounce when I fall.