A small patio sheltered one half of the small garden space from the rain and sun, the white posts of its supports ringed by vines of an almost glowing green, the smooth concrete floor and the warm blue walls that I remembered from that first encounter, privately, that sunny day when I would have signet the lease on a dump, I was that happy. In the small shed at the back of the garden, I reached down and found what I’d been seeking – the large olive oil tin, slightly dusty but otherwise free of rust. Inside my toolkit I found the steel-cutting scissors and gouged off the top of the tin, cleaning it and then filling it with composted earth I’d brought from the old worm farm. The olive oil tin was about two thirds filled with good stuff, and I planted the Vietnamese mint deep in that soild goodness, watering the transplanted herb with drill water from the house’s secured rooftop collector. I wandered around pulling curtains back and opening Windows to the soft rain opera of the morning.