I take this volunteering very seriously. So even though I wanted to help Mrs M "tidy up", and the job turned out to be all about gardening, about which I know nothing, I faced up to my responsibilities and readied myself. First step, break into the shed. Apparently her gardening tools were in there but she'd lost the key. With the screws behind the clasp (as they should be) it was a matter of either prising off the clasp and probably break the tongue and groove wood of the shed, or - what a good thing I knew about this possibility in advance - bring along some bolt cutters. Well why not? At least it was an excuse to drive to the job rather than engage in all that pesky running or cycling exercise. Tuck and snip, job done. Then my success at legitimate vandalism really got me into trouble... Mrs M said she had another lock on garden gates that blocked her from using the living room doors because that key was missing too: could I take a look? Maybe it was the GoodGym running vest but I couldn't refuse. But... it was an even larger lock; too big even for my bolt-cutters. What a happy bit of contingency planning that led me to slip a large hacksaw into my tool bag. (And I never even made it to the Scouts.) And on the bright side, seemed like I was going to get some exercise after all. 15 minutes of persistent back and forth later... freedom! But then my troubles really began. Mrs M simply wouldn't believe I knew nothing about gardening. Of all the jobs I might have attempted in her very interesting if somewhat ramshackle garden - and there was enough work to occupy 10 of us let alone just one person - I agreed to help replant into the middle of her lawn the monkey-puzzle-in-a-pot. But, perhaps surprisingly, it wasn't my lack of gardening skills that prevented this from going smoothly. The first hole I dug hit bricks and paving six inches down under the earth. My running shoes (I know I didn't run, but one must keep up appearances) were squidging into the spade and I had no chance against these early Neolithic fort foundations. So, with Mrs M's blessing, I started again 3 feet to the east. Ten inches down and I thought we were in with a chance. Drenched the hole with water, added some bio-feed of some kind, took a moment to prepare myself mentally, lifted the tree out of the pot (it was easy, I was feeling strong: yet more exercise under my belt), and lowered it into the hole. A perfect fit. More watering. Soil scrapped back and pressed into the edges of the hole around the tree roots. More watering. It looked like that spot was made for it: from hacksaw to jigsaw-tight. Now, liking to clear up after myself, I went back to fill in the other aborted hole before I left. (All those GoodGym notices about watching out for trip hazards have certainly sunk in.) Task done. Lock and load. (Or two locks and one for the road?) But who's counting? It was tree jobs for the price of one.