Touch is too much

Our house was by any standards substantial. The garden was equally substantial, evidenced by its large lawns. Tony's jet-setting job meant he rarely sat on the mower!

Here's how it started. John, the young boy next door, waiting for university, offered to sort out my grass. Why not? He was young, fit and very watchable! Top off, glistening, joining me for a lemonade in the summer house, he complimented me. My first in years it seemed. I touched his arm in thanks and...

Look but don't... that's my advice. But I did! Tony did too, or more accurately, maim.