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Christian, hasn’t he?”
    I lied to a vicar and I may burn in hell but it was for a good cause and anyway, my fingers were crossed behind my back. I had no choice because in TV terms this was life or death and Bernard had to buy it, because we didn’t have time to find another church.
    “I’m worried what the Bishop’s going to say about all this,” he went on.
    “Bernard, I promise you this will be good for you and for the church as a whole. As for the makeover, the vibrant garden will put you on the map and bring people flocking to see the garden and to Jesus.”
    I was just thinking that I couldn’t get any lower in my desperation to make this work when I heard the dulcet tones of Gerard, the garden designer, who Al had brought in at the last minute to bring some more ‘pizzazz’ to the proceedings. He was hammering scarlet trellis onto the lurid lavender to the tune of Tom Jones’ Sex Bomb .
    “A charming man,” Bernard said, nodding in Gerard’s direction. “Though, it would be nice if he sang something a bit more appropriate while in the vicarage garden. I was under the impression he was a religious man, but I have to say his choice of music doesn’t indicate this.”
    “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I said weakly, feigning surprise. But I have to confess I was also slightly troubled by Gerard. Selected by Al for his gardening prowess and religious piety, Gerard would be making over a different aspect of the garden each week. He’d been singing pretty much since he arrived, but despite a huge and varied musical portfolio, he hadn’t sung one hymn. I should have known better. Phrases like ‘suitable’ and ‘appropriate’, have always eluded Al when selecting contributors to take part in TV programmes.
    There was the alcoholic tenor who drank three bottles of Tia Maria in the green room and gave an operatic performance live on Great Morning that was likened to the late Ollie Reed’s live-and-inebriated rendition of Wild Thing . Then there was the narcoleptic Al booked to talk about his condition on live telly. Not surprisingly, our studio guest slept through most of the interview while the hapless presenter ‘filled’ for six whole minutes – which may as well be a year in television. And my own personal favourite, the psychic with Tourette’s that Al booked for Have a Dead Good Morning . There had also been naked decorators, gay gardeners and bulimic dieticians, all with their own unique way of stealing the show and blocking phone lines with viewers’ complaints.
    I reassured Bernard once more that all was OK and went to find Al in the makeshift and optimistically-titled catering tent.
     “Al, can you assure me that Gerard wasn’t the result of a trawl through one of your favourite gay dating websites?” I said as I joined him at a table where he was eating a rather delicious-looking chip butty.
    “My sweet, it’s a bona-fide garden company and Gerard comes highly recommended,” he answered, taking a huge bite of hot, chip-filled bread. I knew what he was up to – he was trying to dismiss the whole subject with chip distraction.
    “That looks nice. But I’ve started a diet,” I muttered, refusing to be drawn into the hot chips and melting butter on thick, white, doorstep bread. I pictured the ‘delicious, nutritious’ Lighter Lift shake that was waiting for me back at the B&B and felt even more depressed. I grabbed a black coffee and returned to poke again at ‘the Gerard problem.’
    “I know you think I’m completely paranoid,” I said, sitting down at the table and letting the steam from my coffee provide warmth and a mini-facial, “but Gerard’s not your typical gardener, is he?”
    Al shrugged, “What is a typical gardener Stel? I mean he’s got all the qualifications...”
    “Mmm, it’s fine on paper but it’s something else when Gerard, in his twenty-two-stone glory is brandishing a pitchfork and working it to the tune of Smack My Bitch Up on the vicar’s