For those of you wondering, it’s sort of half-work, half-play over here. We’re staying in a little house in Hobart with a bungalow out the back, where for four days of the work week, Keith trots off to do his solar cell physics software thing while I manage life with childrens.
He’s going fine in his new little office. In fact, we had some beautiful weather a few days ago (it all seems to have disappeared in the mist now) and he was tinkering away at his laptop, when the neighbor wandered out to do some gardening, unaware (or perhaps entirely aware, who knows?) that the window of Keith’s little bungalow looked out over her otherwise private backyard. (The gardens here in Hobart are amazing, by the way. Flowers for days.) All as normal, except that she had forgotten to put her top on. Keith quite lost his train of thought for a few moments as she wandered about pruning the rosebushes. But then she went inside and he was able to turn his mind back to science.
That is, until she returned. Completely starkers! Nude as the day she was born! She pottered about like that for a while. It’s true that the garden is very impressive, and perhaps, like Prince Charles talking to his organic broad beans so that they grew strong, the nudity is the magic. Could the gentle pressure of her naked form, or the occasional spray of light perspiration, be the key to all those wonderful flowers? Is it possible that all these fecund cold-climate gardens are due to naked Tasmanians? I never saw Peter Cundall with his kit off, but perhaps it’s just a Tasmanian secret, like all the relatives with the extra heads?
On the whole it was perhaps the single greatest moment of Keith’s working life.
World Naked Gardening Day , May 3rd. Mark your diaries. Tasmania! (And don’t lose your pencil).