MUCH BICKERING REJECTS BREXIT
photo by E Williams
And now that awful woman, Mrs Stevens is asking to return Boris for bad behaviour. Of course, I refused point blank and told her she’d had several others to pick from and she should have thought of the damage he might do at the time. It’s too late to complain now if he is running amok. She’s made her choice and that’s an end to it. Neutering him might calm his behaviour in the house and it might stop him spraying the curtains too. I shall be careful who we sell our kittens to in future.
I suspect she is the same woman who put up that poster.
And now we have moles!
The first thing I knew about our talpine visitor was the noise coming from the sunken garden. Crichton was WFH again today and we were enjoying another ‘a little lie in’ when the
cat-a-walling began. Crichton refused to get up and see what all the fuss was about, so despite being dishabillé, apart from a bed sheet, I stuck my head out of the window.
Well!
The earth may not have been moving for me, but it certainly had been for Stubbins.
Mole hills.
The lawn is normally his pride and joy (its picket fence keeps Brexit at bay) and what with scarifying and sweeping the worm casts, it really does him credit…the Hurlingham has no better surface for croquet.
By the time I had popped on a house coat and Wellingtons and joined him outside, Stubbins had finished his war dance, kicking the earth and swearing like a trooper (he was once in the TA so I suppose that’s ok). He now sat on the edge of the Venus de Milo water feature, head in hands and rocking back and forth, silently crying.
I felt rather like joining in, partly out of pity and partly from despair.
Eight huge tumps of earth across the once pristine grass, and ninth which added insult to injury by popping up in the gravel walkway.
‘I know you’ll want me to put traps down madam, he said at last, but I don’t feel man enough for the task.’
I understood perfectly and would not embarrass him by asking. He had a nasty experience with a rogue possum when he visited his niece in New Zealand and has never been the same again.
Cook consoled us both with strong tea and wise words.
‘It’s nothing but a prawn in a teacup, madam. I’ll call the pest man. He’ll fix old Moldy Warp.’
She was right as always.
We’ve all heard the Jasper Carrot sketch about moth balls and garlic, but clearly the only way to get rid of a mole is to call in an expert. Mr Snowdon was here by lunch time. A quiet man in green overalls, with a fearsome pointed spade and a bag of traps.
Stubbins and I left him to it and spent half an hour going through his plans for the Gottknowe Players production of War Horse - the musical.
He and Mr Hobbs from the ironmongers are playing Joey the horse but they are still fighting over who will have the honour to play ‘front’, and I felt we could help his cause and cheer him up by making the costume. The play is an ambitious project involving the cub scouts and brownies who are terribly keen, but I fear enthusiasm alone will not be enough to bring out the poignancy of the piece. Arraminta and I promised a papier mâché horse’s head by the weekend and spent a couple of jolly afternoons with chicken wire, copies of the Sunday Times and wall paper paste. We were really rather pleased with the effect once it had dried.
Arraminta splashed on a couple of coats of brown emulsion and now decorated with egg box eyes and lashes made of cable ties, with Granny T’s old mink stole for a mane, Joey could probably take first prize at the Three Counties Show. I couldn’t wait to show Stubbins.
And after all the trouble we’d been to, how did he react? Certainly not with the gratitude expected of him. In fact was quite off with me when he tried on the head.
I agree it was a trifle snug around the ears, and he did damage a lobe getting it off again, but there was no need to be quite so rude. How was I to know that Stubbins is a seven-and-seven-eights? Or that Mr Hobbs has a head the size of a pin? It will fit him perfectly.
I don’t care. I've done my best and received scant thanks. Stubbins will just have to be the back end, and be glad of it. At least he won't have to deal with udders as the poor vicar did in Jack and the Beanstalk last year. I refused to make the harness however despite his pleading.
But I relented when I poked my head into the Oxfam shop and found a quantity of leatherette fabric for two pounds fifty that would do very nicely for a head collar and saddle. I couldn’t leave it there at that price, so on Tuesday I began work on some smart stirrups.
I have removed Granny T’s mink and given it to Stubbins for a tail. Mr Hobbs can provide his own mane.
Crichton Comments
FFS
Why would anyone leave a fake horses head in our bed? It was like a scene from the God Father.
Arraminta was always one for a practical joke.
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