Turns out gardening stint with Dad is just the beginning.....

I strolled across the road to my dad's house one recent afternoon, in no particular hurry, with the intention of administering his afternoon medication.
The weather had been that kind of four-seasons-in-one-day phenomenon: early rain had given way to ferociously gusting winds that resisted my young son's and my every effort to climb the hill to school - the sort of climate conditions that some PE teachers might describe as invigorating as they hustle their hapless pupils on to the fully exposed yard for a bracing game of hockey, the youngsters like tender shoots bent double by the prevailing winds.
Late morning sunshine had struggled through the clouds eventually, only to be replaced by a misting mizzle as the day wore on. By the time I made my journey to see my father, drizzle and sunshine were locked in a tenacious battle, and it was unclear which would prevail.
As I approached my father's porch, I noticed that the front door was wide open; seconds later, a curious sound, as of metal ringing on stone, assailed my ears from the side of the property. I continued on my path, surmising that the tenacious fellow was likely busy with garden chores.
I paused to collect his tablets and a glass of water, then exited the house via the back door.
Turning right, I observed my dad bent low over the paving stones in front of the French doors, trowel in hand. The stones, slender and bi-coloured rectangles, are laid in an intersecting geometric pattern, each neatly adjoining the next most attractively.
As I drew closer, I became aware that my dad was using the edge of the trowel to scrape along the grooves between the tiles, clearing them of the moss that had sprung up in each gap. He worked patiently, unhurriedly, each turn of the blade methodical and effective. I was fascinated by the neatness of the operation, the hypnotic rasp of the tool against the stone, and the dislodging of perfect slugs of mossy soil, which then lay, exposed and forlorn, atop the tiles.
I greeted my dad, and handed him the medication and glass. He swallowed the tablets, chasing them down with the water, then, having handed the glass back to me, stooped to continue with his endeavours.
Feeling horribly guilty that I, 40 years his junior, was a mere bystander in this laborious task, I offered to help. Eschewing my desire to take over, he instructed me to retrieve the garden broom from the lean-to nearby; I located the implement, then cast my gaze around for another trowel, spying instead a garden fork.
I grabbed it and carried both items back to join my dad. I swept the small pile of mossy deposits already generated aside, then fell into step with my father's work, dispensing each new strip separated from its tile casing with the broom. It still felt, however, as though my octogenarian father had the more raw deal, so I leaned down and started tackling the embedded sludge with the fork myself, sliding one of its tines along the indentation and freeing a perfect pellet of damp, green-tinged soil.
It was an utterly satisfying pursuit, and I persisted alongside my dad, expelling more and more of the clods of earth before dispatching them vigorously with the brush. The air felt fresh and cleansing as the sunshine won the battle of the elements and shone down warmly on us two toilers, and I felt myself give over to the sensations I was experiencing: the low bow with the trowel; the singing of the blade and stone; the rhythmic swish of the brush.
It was a strangely absorbing occupation, and when we finally straightened up, with about half the surface area tackled, I was pleased with the progress we had made. Naturally, as I bid my father farewell and rounded the side of the house, making my way to the front path, I realised that our efforts had been the tip of the iceberg; nestling between every tile beneath my feet betwixt gate and porch was that hitherto unnoticed but now unignorable mossy slug. Ah well, I guess Rome wasn't built in a day, and I only live over the road; I'll be back.