The Royal Groundskeeper
In the Court of KJ, the local landscape is a free DIY store that the rest of the world is too stupid to use.
Sundays were reserved for State Visits to stately homes with big gardens, and Cragside was his favourite.
Most families went to look at the architecture or the history. KJ went for the shrubs.
He would screech into the car park, leap out of the car, leaving it skewed behind him.
He would then briskly march through the manicured grounds in his green woolly jumper and white shorts, red wine stains at the corners of his mouth, huffing aggressively through the flowerbeds.
When the coast was clear, he would uproot rhododendrons with his hands, dragging the leafy contraband back to the car and stuffing them into the boot.
Then came the beach. We weren’t there for the view, a leisurely walk, or to kick a ball about. KJ would immediately begin a speedy extraction of sand and pebbles, with a very small shovel. He was convinced he was the only man clever enough to realise the North Sea was providing free landscaping supplies.
He would careen home, sweating, the car dragging along the tarmac under the weight of half a beach and a forest of stolen shrubs, smelling of Dishwasher Breath and damp earth.
If anyone suggested that he was basically stealing from the National Trust, he would offer a profound condescension:
“Hey, I’m a good guy. The point is, I saved a lot of money.”
© 2026 Jennifer Clair Robson AKA The Terrible Daughter. All rights reserved.