I sang for my gardener today. His name’s Rory and he comes once a month to keep my small courtyard garden tidy. It’s a task I enjoy doing myself, but it got away from me over autumn and, well, Rory was there and I wasn’t. Thank you Rory.

He arrives without an appointment and gets to work. Today the first thing I knew of his arrival was while I was singing a song I wrote last month in Helen Clarkson’s shower. I try to do some music every day, and late morning is usually a good time to snatch a half hour. During the third verse I thought I heard noises outside and … yes, there was Rory, down on his knees weeding.

I could have stopped at that point in bright embarrassment at being found out. But I kept singing until I’d completed what I’d set out to do. Later, when I paid him, we talked about it. And I didn’t feel shamed or exposed. I suspect because continuing to sing had been a conscious choice. If I’d stopped when I saw Rory, I might well have felt differently about the experience.

Would you sing for your gardener?