Two years ago my world went completely topsyturvy. My father passed away and, after twenty years of marriage, I found myself signing divorce papers.
I moved back into my dads cottage in the Cotswolds after being made redundant. At forty I was convinced that the goodbythewaythejobmarket and the lovedepartment had both closed their doors.
Fate seemed determined to test my patience. The roof, patched up by some local DIY enthusiast, started leaking. I didnt have the strength to haul firewood up the stairs.
The tradesmen whod replaced the timber frames quit halfway through, leaving gaps for the wind to slip through. To stay warm I collected pine cones and, desperate as I was, used a stack of old books as kindling.
Then the electricity flickered out and I had to turn the heating off. The owner of the pub across the road began sliding me helpful offers, which left me wondering whether to laugh or weep.
I thought things couldnt get any worse, yet suddenly everything turned a corner.
My very own prince appeared at the village bus stop, stepping off a local bus. He had a messy mop of hair, wore a battered work shirt, and made his living fixing roofs. He asked if I needed a hand. I admitted I did, but I had nothing to pay him with.
He smiled and said, When youve got a few quid, well settle up. He patched the roof, the leaky tap, the water meter, the garden fence, the steps and the windows.
One bitterly cold evening I returned home to find a toasty fire crackling in the hearth and, beside it, a steaming mug of herbal tea.
It was as if the universe had handed me exactly what my frozen throat and icy feet required.
I now know who my hero is and Im still puzzling over the best way to thank him. Hes talented but modest, so I wont even mention his nametiny villages have a habit of remembering everything.
My cottage and garden have been transformedtheres a definite manhand touch about the place now. With my Jacklike prince by my side I feel warm, happy, and, admittedly, a little terrified of ever losing him.
