M. Lafitte arrived this morning with a thousand litres of oil for the central heating. Every time he comes he whinges about the Banksia rose scraping the top of his lorry. He is clearly very stressed by having to negotiate his truck up our steep and narrow drive and takes it out on the rose. This outburst usually lasts until I've written the cheque at which point he becomes positively chirpy. I've become fond of him.

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