And on… Then, at, yes, a garden centre, propped against the base of a Wellingtonia, there he was. Bang. Love at first sight. Strong featured. Hair a mass of Medusa like curls. And, best of all, he was sticking his tongue out. OK, he was concrete, but it was kind of roughly done, a good colour, and as no-one had plainly fallen like we had, he had the beginnings of a good coat of lichen. No price tag. The saleman was nonplussed. Our concrete man had been part of something else, but the something else had got broken, leaving him behind. The face had a sort of bib, which must have socketed into the ‘something else’. The salesman named, rather doubtfully, a price. We should have beaten him down. We hastily rushed our new friend to the car, lest the price go up.
A day or so later, impatient, we fearfully hacked the bib away from the face, raided another part of the garden for a one of the huge rectangular stones to make him a plinth, dug up some rodgersias, and voila! There he was amongst the mud and looking smug.
But we wanted him amongst vegetation, when that returns, and a foot or so back from the pool’s margin. We rigged up some hosepipe to the pump, fed it into the man’s head, and spout he did. Alas, the pump wasn’t up to the distance the water needed to be thrown, merely increasing the soup-like consistency of the garden. Ok. We need a more powerful pump. Alas too, the plinth is quite high, and we realised how much fun it would be if the water fell first into a stone trough, and then a spigot from that emptied water into the pool…. And then… But I won’t go on. We shouldn’t have done it. We are now spending time (and money) on avoiding something terrible. A four letter word. Naff.