We regret to inform readers that Barry’s initial performance was, by his own admission, a little underwhelming. The connection hose—thin, brittle, barely up to the task — was cruelly split by a jubilee clip in what can only be described as a tragic act of early optimism. Emergency measures were taken: twine was applied, muttered apologies exchanged, dignity somewhat preserved.

But Barry, being Barry, did not sulk.

When the pipe was finally connected to the guttering on the greenhouse roof, with the rain trickling down like a benediction from the heavens as well as a full hose test, Barry roared.

Not a murmur. Not a gurgle.

A roar.

And then, in a voice that startled the tadpoles and set Evelyn (the new peace lily in the restoration of the Summerhouse) swaying in her pot, he sang —
“Can’t Get Enough of Your Downpour, Baby.”

The hose is still a stopgap. The clip still bites. But the spirit of Barry is fully engaged now. He is no longer a voyeur to the greenhouse’s harvest. He is its vessel. Its font. Its bard.

A proper hose will come. Until then, we mark this chapter as a turning point in the mythology of the garden.

Barry lives. Barry sings. Barry collects.