The wizened old man on the green bench sat there so long watching the sea I thought he might be asleep.

And then at last he spoke.

‘It is complicated, turrible complicated,’ he said softly to the wind. ‘And at the same time turrible simple. If we was all to live as gardeners now… wherever we chose to be. And if we was say, to wander out there, looking for the good things… and where we was to find them, if we was to whisper real quiet now “grow little good thing, grow, grow…”’

And the man paused, and he looked back out to sea again, and he laughed, and he laughed and he laughed.