THE WHEEL DEAL

Though Fiona Armstrong is eternally grateful to the MacGregor for gifting her a trusty wheelbarrow, a bunch of flowers wouldn’t go amiss

Fiona Armstrong is touched by her husband's latest gift, but flowers might have been the safer option

It is good to know that romance is not dead at Armstrong MacGregor Towers. The chief goes to the local hardware store and comes home with a wheelbarrow. It is an unusual present, but there is some method in his madness.

The thing is, since lockdown started and sort of ended, I have been pinching his cart to move plants about in the garden. And as it is the one that he uses to shift wood from shed to log burner basket, it has not been going down well.

So, this gift is a good idea. It will keep the peace and I tell him how pleased I am with his show of affection.

Privately, though, you have to agree that a wheelbarrow is not exciting at the best of times. I suppose it could be, although the thing is neither a trendy pink nor a yellow shade. This piece of garden equipment is a bog-standard green plastic. It is utilitarian. And it will, of course, be useful.

Yet I sometimes dream of getting bunches of flowers or boxes of chocolates. Then I remind myself not to be curmudgeonly. After all, a present is a present. And it is very kind of my husband to put his hand in his pocket. Especially when you think of all the other things he might have come home with.

Pleased that I appear to be pleased, the MacGregor is now sitting at the kitchen table and perusing a fancy garden magazine. It is fat and glossy – and aimed at well-heeled townies. Well, it must be. ‘£14.99 for a ball of string?!’ he blurts out. Scottish thrift coming through, along with a splash of sarcasm.

‘Well, that’s good value…’

He reads on further, tutting at each new piece of overpriced merchandise.

Seven hundred pounds for a barrow! But then it probably steers itself. Forty pounds for a handful of herb garden tags. Yes, horticulturalists, be there or be square.

He sighs and puts down the periodical. ‘Honestly, who buys this stuff?’ Probably those folk who shop in Waitrose. Actually, I think it is a myth about Scotsmen being mean. All those old jokes.

‘What’s the difference between a tightrope and a Scotsman? A tightrope sometimes gives…’

‘How did the Grand Canyon develop? A Highlander looking for a lost coin in a ditch…’

After all, a Scot may be careful with his cash, but it does not necessarily mean he is penny-pinching. Indeed, a recent survey showed Scots to be the best tippers in the UK.

And, many moons ago, when I lived in Lancashire, the Scots were the ones who went to Blackpool determined to spend every penny of the holiday money they brought with them. Personally, my view is that while meanness is not to be encouraged, thrift is admirable.

I am the one who turns the olive oil bottle upside down to get the last drops. I am the person who uses the bar of soap until it is little more than a slither. I love the reduced counter at the supermarket. I set the dishwasher running only when it is full to bursting.

And I am not really getting at Waitrose, which is, by all accounts, a wonderful shopping experience. In fact, I have a girlfriend who wants to move north, from London to Scotland, but she is put off by the fact that there are only a handful of its shops north of the border.

I tell her that where spoiled shoppers go, smart stores soon follow.

In the meantime, you must excuse me, as I need to try out my lovely new present…

You have to agree that a wheelbarrow is not exciting at the best of times