Unlike our compatriots to the West - wimps by any other name - we Haligonians will enjoy the lovely weather on the terraces of our favourite pubs, even if it means clearing two feet of snow to do so. Nothing brings us more joy than sitting in our shorts, chipping away at our frozen beer, and talking about the latest downpour. After all, we do have a hundred words for the stuff in Nova Scotian, ‘frigging rain’ and ‘some frigging rain’ being just two examples.

In my particular corner of the city, there is another sure-fire sign that the birds will soon be practicing their latest hits: the hookers are shedding their winter coats. After their annual moult, they turn from a dull greyish blue, to something quite fetching in pink or even yellow.

While any hot blooded, Nova Scotian male would relish such a metamorphoses, the first sign of a half naked street walkers always fills me with dread. Partial nudity on Bloomfield Street unerringly means only one thing: the annual summons to start weeding the garden is right around the corner.

This year was no exception. As soon as much better half spotted the first sign of skin, she sprang into combat mode. The camouflage was removed from various garden implements, shovels were oiled and hoes were inspected for any sign of metal fatigue.

A battle plan was devised which saw my platoon bear the brunt of the first assault on any fauna that looked even slightly suspicious. Orders to kill were issued. Any desertion, I was warned, would be met with severe punishment. In short, retreat was impossible.

As a rule, columnists shy away from any physical activity. Even moving one’s mouse can seem burdensome at times.  A good day’s work consists of spending five and a half hours wondering what to have for dinner, two hours waiting for inspiration with our eyes closed and another hour reading our competition’s drivel, wondering how these illiterate sloths ever managed to get their own space. The rest of the time is mostly spent writing.

Any soul who would have spotted me standing dejected in front of my house last weekend would have said to themselves:” there’s a man who looks beaten”. And they would have been right. Spade in hand, I practiced that long stare that one often finds in war veterans, steeling myself for the ordeal at hand. Just as I was about to strangle the first dandelion of the day, I heard a voice behind me. “Hey Mr.” it said “do you want a date?”

Naturally, I was quite flattered. We married men don’t get asked out a lot. Those push-ups I had done twice a week seemed to be paying off.  Turning around, I immediately recognized my admirer. It was Betty, who had been plying her trade across the street for a few years now. She smiled amiably before whispering “a hundred bucks”.

I only hesitated for a moment. Although usually a man of impeccable loyalty, I saw my chance to escape my bourgeois drudgery.  Sure, the amount seemed a bit steep, but sometimes in life a man deserved to splurge.

Here, I must admit, that this, my first experience with a prostitute, was much more pleasant than I had anticipated. Once I had put my spade in her hand and saw the expert way in which she handled it, a deep sense of satisfaction overcame me. The way she attacked those dandelions convinced me that it had been a wise choice to leave the matter to a pro.

After a short while, I decided that a threesome might be even more enticing, and asked Betty to call in reinforcements. A good move, since Suzy handled the tiller like a seasoned gardener. At this rate, my afternoon chores would be finished well before naptime.

Not that I left it at that. We addicts never do. After all, the gutters needed to be cleared and my battle orders for the year had included laying new paving stones all along the side of the house. More manpower was needed, and Suzy – a veritable one man temp agency – knew just where to get it.

The tableau before me was a balm for the lazy soul. Suzy and Betty, having finished their respective chores, had formed a team and were now in the process of building a retaining wall. Meanwhile, Monique was perched up high on the ladder re-nailing loose shingles. Not to be outdone, her colleagues Margo and Lydia were mixing the cement for the foundation of my new shed. The whole thing was costing me a fortune, but Suzy had assured me that the whole crew would take Visa. Things were going swimmingly….until my wife returned.

I had always heard rumours, that women can under certain circumstances become irrational creatures. Whether this is true of the sex in general remains a point of contention. What can be said with certainty is that when a female, who has just bought up every petunia within a ten kilometre radius, returns to find her husband surrounded by a half a dozens scantily clad prostitutes, her behaviour can become somewhat unpredictable. Yet –as I can attest – her mind remains clear enough to call the nearest locksmith.

Unable to get back into my house and with my credit card maxed out, I did not exactly welcome the latest downpour that had decided to pop by just then. Luckily, I still had a few dollars in my pocket and the bar down the street had just opened its patio. It was, after all, springtime in Halifax.