A wheelbarrow

For a birthday gift this year from my beau, I got a wheelbarrow. Lightweight, secondhand, fully-functioning and, like its giver, really rather handsome. 

It provided some lengthy commentary among some friends and colleagues. It was suggested that this kind of gift might lack romance, with one  jewellry-favouring teacher friend dismissing it sympathetically as '...the beginning of the practical presents..'. 


Scoff! Far from the dizzying glare of over-priced, unfairly traded  silver and gold rocks and wrist chains (I think they call them 'bracelets'), this is the best kind of present. 


It was some months ago that I'd made an off-handed comment while in the garden that what I really needed was a wheelbarrow. I then promptly forgot all about it, putting it mentally on the "I'll deal with that later"  shelf....


..Until it was wheeled out of the back of the car, and in front of my hands over eyes. (Squeal!) Its single bouncy tyre was promptly pumped up and offered up for me, the dog and some dirt to take a ride in. After which it was leant up against the wall by the back door, ready to help. Ready to carry the load; to depend upon when my puny arms can no longer hack it; to be relied on when things get heavy. 


That, my little snow peas, is romance. :)