!ADULTS ONLY! DIRTY PARTS!

Short explanation: In the story, Bertram Burlappe Balliwick, a lecherous Peeping Tom, who wears a realistic pig mask as a disguise, has amnesia from being kicked in the head by one of the aliens. Not
knowing where he lives, he heads for the only address he can remember, the home of an elderly woman he had peeped at through her bathroom
window as she took a shower.

      Chapter Heading: "Why a bathroom is called the head!"

RS. HENRIETTA HIGGAMBOTHAM-SMYTHINGTON was in her garden, the love of her life, doing the chores she felt were necessary to grow prize-
winning flowers, such as Azaleas and Petunias,
not to mention Rhododendrons.

      She had finished her winter mulching chore, three-inches-high of mulch around each tree, two-inches-high over the garden beds. For the
trees she used the big chunk-chip mulch, but for
her precious, prize-winning garden beds only
the smaller, fine-chip mulch would do.

      She preferred chip mulch to the more common shredded mulch. Shredded mulch, she believed, and she would know, smothered plants, made watering less effective, and even though it cost less than the chips kind, gave a haven to the bad bugs and other insects that were a gardener's bane. And, to her at least, it smelled funny as it rotted out. Ms. aitch- hyphen-ess knew her gardening, you betcha.

      She was on her knees, a bulb planter tool in her right hand. She'd punch a hole in the soil, drop some bulb fertilizer into it, and plop in a bulb, pointy side up, you betcha. Then she'd cover it back up with soil.

It was hard work and she perspired, for sure, but it was a work of love to her that went back many, many decades.

      Whoever says gardening is relaxing has never tried to plant six hundred bulbs, one hundred each of Tulips, Crocuses, Anemones (Blanda type), Lilies of the Valley, Fritillarias, and Chionodoxas (Glory-of-
the-Snow), each specie fussy about its planting depth.

      Relaxing? You betcha! If having your hands covered in calluses while sweat pours down your back is your idea of relaxation.

      And, strangely enough, or maybe not, if anyone now saw our sweet, dear Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington, all callused up and sweaty, on her knees punching one hole after another, smiling like an idiot, constantly wiping her brow, humming an unknown melody, with a happier-
than-a-pig-in-shit look on her face, they might guess her ideas on the matter of what constitutes relaxation and what doesn't.

      Also strangely enough, she was being watched by someone. Because her widebrimmed straw hat blocked out the sun, and most of her view,
she saw only the person's lower trouser legs and shoes . . .