The garden was small, but he loved it.
On a spring morning he would go into it and look down at the ocean below, visible through the foggy glass panes. He would take a deep breath, close his eyes and let his body sink into the deck chair. Just sitting there, thinking of nothing.
It was on such a spring morning he came out in the garden realising that the idyll and bliss he had expected was not there at all.
The giraffe that grew in the four small pots, a leg in each, was roaring for some sustenance, because he had forgotten to water and fertilize it over the winter. The same for the little bears that stood in the brown earthenware beneath the fountain. They cried in their squishy, little voices. In the basin of the fountain a lot of the whales had died lying stomach up and giving off an awful smell.
Plastic was growing up the sides of the concrete pedestal of the bust of his beloved, now lost, wife - plastic was growing everywhere now he took a closer look. It was a bloody mess.
"It is all my own fault," he told himself with a sigh. "You have been high and horny all winter. You have done nothing that deserves to be written in the tomes." He shook his head. "too much old school techno! Too much drugs."
He turned around and came back in wellingtons and work trousers carrying a water cannon, a canister of methane and a large spear of gold.
