Before I do anything else, I just want to give a big shout out to Mrs Y, Bobby, Lexy, Debbie, Sheena and Ally for their ever so kind comments of yesterday. Your thoughts really made my day, so thank you for taking the time to share them.
Anyway, back to this mad house.
At about 8.30pm last night I got a sudden and totally unprecedented attack of garden anxiety and decided it was high time that I removed some of the green straggly things from the border’s. I understand from my Mother that this process is often referred to in learned circles as ‘weeding’. I have it on good authority (again, from my Mother) that plants are generally to be found in soil; however, in my patch of England’s green and pleasant land, they appear to have been concreted in when the house was built.
I was chipping away at the ‘soil’ with a screwdriver when the back gate opened and the Teenager walked past. He was soaking wet and wearing only one trainer. My initial concern was that, like Ben Mitchell of Albert Square, a gaggle of Polish teenagers had nicked his chips and mocked his unnatural interest in musical theatre but as it turned out the solution was much harder to swallow.
He had become preoccupied with a group of people, of the ‘fit young lady variety’, lost the ability to walk in a straight line and fallen into the river.
Annabelle listened to his tale of woe and helpfully suggested that in future she accompany him if he was venturing out of the house.
The teenager flounced out of the room on hearing Annabelle’s proposed care in the community strategy and the last I saw of him he was stamping up the stairs muttering something about ‘player-haters’.
The shiny, pretty, girl from last week popped around at about 9pm to check he was okay and to tell me that his trainer had been spotted floating downstream. She was very sorry but they had, she said, been unable to capture it.
Her deep regret at the unfortunate situation probably explains why she was bright red and had tears running down her face.