The Gardener's Edge

Lord Bartholomew strode through his meticulously manicured gardens, a monocle perched precariously in his eye, addressing his long-suffering gardener, Giles.

"Giles," Lord Bartholomew announced, sweeping a hand towards a newly installed sundial, "Observe the sundial. A magnificent apparatus, wouldn't you agree? It reminds us of the relentless march of time, the fleeting nature of existence, and the profound wisdom inherent in observing the passage of light."

Giles, a man whose hands bore more calluses than Lord Bartholomew had theories, squinted at the sundial. "Aye, milord. And it also reminds me that the fellow who installed it put it half an hour slow. Bit of a bother when I'm trying to catch the afternoon tea break."

Lord Bartholomew blinked, adjusting his monocle. "That's hardly the point, Giles! We are discussing existential contemplation, not the accuracy of your afternoon cuppa!" He cleared his throat. "Consider, instead, the exquisite beauty of this rare imported orchid. Its delicate petals, Giles, speak to the ephemeral elegance of all living things, their transient grace in a world of constant flux."

Giles peered at the orchid, then nudged a wilting leaf. "Ephemeral elegance, milord? Looks more like it's catchin' a nasty case of aphids. And if we don't flux it with some insecticide soon, it won't be transient, it'll be just plain gone."

Lord Bartholomew's face reddened. "Giles! Must you always reduce everything to such mundane practicality? Can you not appreciate the grander scheme, the poetic truth?"

"Poetic truth, milord?" Giles scratched his chin. "Well, I suppose the most poetic truth about this garden is that if I don't get these weeds pulled by sundown, you'll have more 'ephemeral elegance' than you can shake a trowel at. And no amount of existential contemplation will make 'em disappear."

Lord Bartholomew sighed, defeated. "Giles," he muttered, "sometimes I think you were born specifically to puncture every philosophical balloon I ever inflate."

Giles merely smiled, picking up his trowel. "Someone's got to, milord. Else they just float off into the ether, and then where would your tea break be?"