5 August 2021
Thursday. First proper shift. Wrote the date at the top of a clean logbook in my best hand. It did not stay clean for long.
Evening: both plots neat, both lids down, soil raked level, Tuppence asleep on the left-hand one. Lovely job, if I say so myself.
Later: a shovel going somewhere close by, and a laugh I did not care for. Then two people talking through the timber at each other, one on each side, getting crosser and crosser. I kept my head down. Not my business. My business is soil.
Later again: both lids up, soil everywhere, two sets of footprints heading off towards the lights. Then another pair, same again, except these two came out hugging the young person in the hoodie who runs things.
Tally for the night: plots disturbed, two. Pairs, two. Lids I put back, all of them. I am told this is what the job is now. I have had worse jobs. I have not had dustier ones.
— H., groundskeeper
