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I'm feeling quite pensive writing this short story. Today, I finally met with Dave and we worked in the garden, just like we used to. You see, when I first moved home to Scotland a few years ago, I found myself with a nice flat but also a very big garden, something I'd never had in London.

Therefore, I set about finding someone to help me in the garden but I wanted to be a gardener's lackey, and learn the trade, so that I could eventually look after my own garden.

Dave did just that, and we would meet fortnightly throughout the seasons for a few hours. On one occasion, we each sketched with sticks in the snow our understanding as to which of the three planets, the sun, moon and earth, orbit which. We had such fun laughing at each other's supposedly persuasive techniques and arguments as to who was right.

Then I left for the USA.

So today, nine months later, we did what we always do. We walked around the garden, Dave explaining to me what he was trying to do in each of the sections of the garden and why. Invariably, this resulted in a series of tasks which Dave divided between us. My job was to rake in all the wet autumn leaves and put them onto a patch where weeds grow plentiful. I cut back a blueberry bush, tidied most the beds to the rear of the garden, and the leaves I didn't need, I then dispensed with in our homemade compost heap.

Meanwhile, Dave was down at the front of the garden converting the veggie patch into a fertile, fallow land by placing the autumn leaves currently scattered throughout the garden and him mixing them with the compost. He also planted some Dogwood in this patch which we now deemed our 'holding ground' until we decide where to put them elsewhere in the garden.

After a few hours I ran upstairs and made some hot sausage sandwiches and prepared a flask of tea. I returned to the garden and we sat in front of the chiminea. The fire warmed our legs, the tea our chests and we talked of old and new places and our dreams and life ambitions. There are many: it is a wonderful life after all.

This one day was so simple and for that, it was special. Is it not the simple things that mean so much more, that one remembers the longest? Just as old friends will last a lifetime and indeed beyond.

The garden looks better for our efforts, but we have so much more to do next Saturday unless snow prevents us. Even then, I doubt that will stop us.

This story is dedicated to Dave, horticulturist extraordinaire and my gardener originally. And my friend.