When Do You Need a Pitchfork...?

I can work for hours producing a stand-up-and-cheer Sunday lunch and Dearest will say, "Bloody great Horseradish!"
Dearest daughter will arrange a plate of his favourite cold cuts and cheeses, only to be asked, "Where did you get this chutney?"
We call him Condiments Man, but he is unrepentant. I thought that it was an idiosyncrasy of the less loveable kind, until this evening.
The builders have left the building. That is not to say they will, in time, return, bringing gifts of bathroom cabinet, wall-hung loobrush, and heated towel rail. They have cleared our small garden of all the rubbish that this small project has spawned. In fairness, they left things pretty ship-shape. So I set to with verve and determination to address the small space I'd, of necessity, neglected for the past five weeks. I weeded, pruned, planted and brushed until the whole garden was a dead-headed testimony to my relentless endeavours.
I ushered Dearest into the trig and trim garden.
"Wow!" he exclaimed.
I could hardly contain my delight. At last!
He wondered out into across the patio.
"Just fantastic! I love those pink flowers peeking over the fence..."
Dear Readers, he is referring to the Mallow (Lavatera) that is peeking over the fence from
our neighbour's garden.