For a few years when I was a kid – around the age of 9 to 11 if my memory serves me correctly, my parents employed the most beautiful gardener. Think Eddie Redmayne only with less theatrical mannerisms, and combine him with more than a dash of the Diet Coke man.

I recall the late summer afternoons when he would be in the back garden, topless, pruning the rose bushes. I swear my parent’s house had never been so popular with friends just “popping” in for a cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg. With windows all across the back which overlooked the patio and labyrinth of home-grown blooms, the kitchen was needless to say quite the social gathering hub, what with the promise of such a spectacular view.

I remember finding it quite amusing at the time, naive and clueless in the midst of my pre-pubescent youth, anyone over the age of 21 was old, and my Mother, two children and more than a decade of marriage under her belt was practically ancient. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why the pinnacle of the week was seemingly gawping at the (admittedly very handsome) bloke who mowed the lawn by the patio furniture. I swore that obviously, when I was grown up and sophisticated and happily married to someone who possibly resembled Commander William T. Riker from Star Trek (don’t judge me, he gave excellent beard) there was no way on earth I would embark on such an embarrassing recreational activity. My Mum must have been in her early to mid thirties at the time.

Fast forward to last Friday, I am at home with Mabel, it’s raining, the sky is grey and all she wants to do is watch Ben and Holly’s Magic Kingdom on repeat. There I am on the sofa, about to lose the will to live if I have to endure the sound of the bloody elf horn one more time when a rather large truck type vehicle has the audacity to park right outside our front wall. You would literally have to do quite the military trained manoeuvre just to get to our front door, and there would be absolutely no chance with a pushchair in tow.

Whilst deciding how I should politely ask whomever was the proprietor of the vehicle to kindly move the hell away from the main entrance to our home, out stepped a rather dishevelled, attractive and dare I say slightly dangerous looking fellow in green overalls. Well now, that was unexpected.

Upon further ahem, investigation, it transpired Mr Dangerous was in fact a Tree Surgeon, employed by Anne who lives next door but one to take down a large oak that I imagine, blocked out a substantial amount of light come Spring.

I decided that perhaps my request could wait, and instead I found myself re-configuring the contents of my wardrobe. Turns out the master bedroom is the most preferential place to position one’s self should you require a full demonstration of Anne’s lawn being littered with sizeable branches. Mundane chore aside, it sure beat the Disney Channel.

For those of you that are concerned by my apparent objectification of the Tree Surgeon, I just want to point out that his appeal was not purely aesthetic. I was most impressed with his obvious experience and skill in his chosen line of work. Seriously, you should have seen the way he wielded a chainsaw.

Some hours later my Mum decided to pop in for yes, you guessed it, a pot of english breakfast and a custard cream. Upon somehow managing to squeeze herself past the truck and actually through the front door she breathlessly exclaimed “Oh. My. God. Charl! Have you seen the Tree Surgeon at Anne’s??!! So dishy!”

Yes Mum. Yes I have.

It was then it occurred to me that my Friday was very much history repeating itself.

Like mother…. like daughter.