The place that I go to in North Oxfordshire has been repairing lawn mowers and other garden implements for nearly 30 years. Sometimes I think that some of those machines that were brought in for repair all those years ago are still there.

I bought my hedgecutter from the owner some four years ago. He gave me a lot of advice about it, particularly warning me against the use of stale petrol - a point that few people appreciate. The thing never started well. It became an alternative to planned physical exercise. On the days that I had to use it I could forswear press ups and jogging. Getting that thing started exhausted me, mentally and physically. Then, one day in the early summer of last year, it refused to start entirely. I did all the usual things: crossing my fingers, whispering encouragements to it before I pulled the cord, swearing at it as the sweat began to pour from my face, turning my back on it, leaving it to suffer alone in the middle of the lawn. Nothing worked. So, I took it back to the man who sold it to me. He wanted me to do so. He stuck a big yellow label on it when I bought it. The label had his name and address and telephone number firmly emblazoned on it. I was puzzled; after all I had bought it, now he seemed to be taking possession. All became clear when he said, "That's to ensure that you get priority treatment if you should have to return this appliance for repair - I always look after my own customers first."

He was busy when I deposited the dead hedgecutter at his place. There was no time for the usual lecture on starting procedures and stale petrol. He simply wrote out a tie on label with the problem and my details on it, then told me that it would be ready soon and that he would call me when it was. I left, happy and confident, this man, I felt, had a feel for garden machines - and mine, as one of his own, would be given priority and respect.

The summer wore on, but there was no word from the hedgecutter man. Still, I never did like cutting the hedge much and besides, there's not much of it nowadays - we have downsized a little in recent years by selling a big house and buying two little ones. Besides, the hedgecutter was in good hands. Autumn arrived and the top of the hedge was crying out for a clipping. I went to see the man. It was a Saturday, around midday, he was closing and did not look at all happy. I told him, rather apologetically I fear, about the long awaited call and my much-missed hedgecutter. He responded by saying that he had been very busy but it would be ready next week. I went away feeling quite hopeful, he did speak as if he knew the whereabouts of my particular implement, as if it was on his mind and he would soon get to work on it. Weeks passed and there was no call. The season passed and the time for hedge cutting passed with it. Then we entered a new year and I began to miss my hedgecutter. A new year heralds spring, the bursting of buds and the rapid growth of leaves - where was my hedgecutter? I set off to the shop, well it isn't really a shop, it's a few sheds, a yard and a collection of lock up skips.

As I got out of the car I could hear some appliance or another roaring away in the garden just beyond the sheds. I went into the shed marked "Office"; there was no one about. I shouted, nothing, no response. I went outside again, the roaring appliance had stopped now, a leaf blower lay abandoned in the lawn of the garden behind the shed. I walked towards it, expecting that the lawnmower man would be nearby. As I turned the corner I could see him. He had his back to me and seemed to be examining the flowerbed. He is a short man and always wears a cap. He turned towards me and I could see that he was fiddling with something near his crotch. "Ah, caught short," he said without smiling. I laughed and was grateful that he did not offer to shake hands.

I asked if my hedgecutter was ready - swift inward suck of breath. We toured the skips looking for it - without success. He was sure it was "somewhere". I asked him if he could please tell me when it would be ready. He said, "no." Just like that, "no."

We returned to the office, heads down. He explained to me that he and his wife had recently divorced. He described the settlement in some detail. Apparently judges nowadays have the sense to favour small businesses and to leave them in the hands of the lead partner. This was especially important because small businesses, such as his, provide employment. He then said that he was now a reborn teenager, his faded blue eyes stared suspiciously at me over his half-lensed glasses, looking for the slightest smile of doubt. He was now going dancing, "which gives me the chance for a bit of a cuddle." What all this had to do with my hedgecutter I did not know, but he was working slowly towards that. He explained that no one wanted to work as a fitter in his business any more. They wanted to work on motor cars - which paid better. But those in the car business wanted to work on lorries because that paid even more. And those on the lorries wanted to work on JCBs because that paid a fortune and you were on call - with even more money for call outs. But, then came the big problem, those working on JCBs were fed up. They were working 365 days a year, had no time for family or to spend their money. I suggested that they might come to work with him on garden machinery - but no, the money's no good. There was a moral here and it was clearly my own fault if I couldn't see it. Besides he was better off without staff. If, after a night's dancing, he felt like a lie-in. he had one. No one to come and open up for in the mornings, so he was his own man. If he wanted to work until ten at night then that was up to him, but I guess with all the dancing he just didn't feel so inclined

Much to my relief the reason why my hedgecutter was not ready was obliquely addressed again - he had been working on his books since the week before Christmas - roughly four weeks of work apparently. He had a lady helping him - his eyes twinkled a little a he said this. "A little romance there," I ventured. He almost smiled, something he always avoids, as if it might waste a moment in which he could speak, "possibly, possibly. But she is getting on a bit, good in every other respect, but getting on a bit." He feels the need to explain to me the reasons for his divorce. Apparently he and his wife were both so involved with the business that they had ceased to take any interest in each other. The parting was amicable, and he kept the business and the property, about two acres of prime land right on the edge of a desirable Cotswold town. And here he has a problem. The accounts lady is getting on a bit and he rather fancies a younger model. But they might be after his money. If he sold his land for housing he could be worth a fortune, and the sweet young thing might then walk away, with half the loot. I opined that if I didn't go soon I might be faced with a divorce. My long-suffering wife was waiting in the car.

He accompanied me as I walked towards it, telling me that my model of hedgecutter was always a bad one to start, the Mark II was much better, it flooded the engine before starting. Then he decided that the problem was that I was keeping the cutter in a shed which was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. I intervened to say that I kept it in a garage but this was ignored. We reached the car, and he began to tell me yet more about the dancing and his new nightlife. My wife looked depressed, even the dog, sitting in the back of my car, was looking fed up. At last I managed to find a small gap in the monologue in which to say I had to go, must get back to Oxford, please to call me when the hedgecutter is ready. I dashed into the car before he could begin a new chapter. We had been talking, sorry he had been talking, for almost an hour. With his skills I'm sure that he could fix two hedgecutters in that time. Blimey, he could have fixed mine!

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