Let me whisper it: I have a gardener. It's one of those UAE secrets that I like to keep from my friends back home, because what someone with a decidedly unfancy garden measuring seven metres by four metres needs with gardening staff is anyone's guess. You may recall from a previous column that my father tends to his 3,000-square-metre plot all on his lonesome, so I haven't told him, either.
In my defence, the process of acquiring said gardener went a little like this. Ten minutes after moving into my new home, there’s a knock on the front door. I open it to find a gentleman wearing blue overalls and a big smile.
Him: “Welcome, madam.”
Me: “Thanks very much.”
Him: “Do you need a gardener, madam?”
Me: “Er, no thanks. I think I’ll do it myself.
Him: “OK, madam.”
Three days later, another knock. Same gentleman, same exchange. And three days after that, and three days after that, and so on and so forth. After a couple of weeks, so impressed was I by the perseverance of his sales pitch, I succumbed.
I will admit to having had slight pause when he handed me his business card (“Happay Gardens – Saddam Hussein”). Or when he presented me with a battered photo album filled with grainy Kodak photos of plants and asked me to point out the ones I liked. A no-frills landscaping service, then.
There were also some concerns the first time I saw Saddam climbing over my back wall with a lawnmower strapped to his back. I kid you not.
Then there was Treegate. My erstwhile gardener announced that he would be pruning the two trees at the end of my garden. I love those trees. Tall and willowy, they act as a solid barrier that prevents anyone seeing into my garden, while blocking out any noise from the adjacent road.
So I explained that I would prefer it if he cut them back only a little bit. A metre, perhaps. I reiterated my point by motioning a distance of one metre with my arms. Saddam nodded vigorously and I trudged off to work. When I returned later that evening, I found that my trees had been slashed back and now stood – you guessed it – about a metre high.
There have been countless other miscommunications. I asked for a plant pot to be moved to the other end of the garden; it disappeared completely. I asked for white bougainvillea; I got pink. I asked for some pebbles to be laid down over here; they ended up over there.
Actually, I say I have a gardener, but in truth I have a collective of gardeners. Pretty much every time I look out of the window there’s a different fellow (same blue overalls, same big smile) tending to my lawn. I’m pretty sure they think I haven’t noticed, so I haven’t brought it up.
The fact is, my garden is in great shape. The lawn – magically watered, mown and reseeded before I even get up in the morning – is lush, a deep healthy green and springy underfoot. That pink bougainvillea is thriving, shooting pretty blossoms out in all directions. My plumeria trees flower constantly, sending their scent wafting into the house. My flower bed made it through last summer without a hitch; and those trees, seemingly rejuvenated by their dramatic trim, are more verdant than ever.
Which leads me to believe that Saddam Hussein and Co know precisely what they are doing, and that our communication issue isn’t actually a communication issue at all. I think they understand exactly what I’m asking them, but choose to nod, smile and then completely ignore me. Because, as it turns out, they know best.
Selina Denman is the editor of Home & Garden.
