Today I have been to see Jilly, the miracle worker.
I make my own garden compost out of all green garden waste, cardboard and newspapers, vegetable kitchen waste and grass clippings; after six months or so, the resulting mess is excellent stuff, dark and friable, crumbly and sweetly earthy, smelling of nothing so much as goodness. You can tell, I love the stuff? Sure, I do. There's nothing more satisfying than deeply covering a bed in it, and myself in the process. The plants positively sigh in ecstasy.
Gardener regularly turns the heaps for me; it is rather hard work. Unfortunately, he tends to overfill the bags, once the compost is ready, making it almost impossible for me to help myself to the pure gold when he's not here, which is most of the time.
So there I am, pushing and pulling, shoving and heaving, trying to fill a wheelbarrow. It's my back that pays the penalty, leaving me bent and crippled.
Which is where Jilly comes in. Jilly is a tiny person with healing hands. Boy, can she do massage! I lie down on her couch a cripple and get off ........... still a cripple, but of a different sort and for a short time only. Her clever hands pummel and knead, digging deep, isolating and homing in on the most painful knots and stiffest muscles, working on them until they give in and dissolve and I emerge bruised and battered, but once again straight backed and upright. Smelling beautifully, too, because Jilly works her miracles using the essential oils of aromatherapy.
Now this is what I would spend a lot of money on, When I am Rich, should I ever get rich. Clouds and diamonds are all very well, but, to my mind, nothing beats an hour's worth of close personal attention.