A sorry pass indeed hemhem is this blog of the day, for Poo (hubby, Milla, not the dog) got very excited towards the end of the afternoon and called me out to the stream which divides the housey bit of the garden fron the workshop bit (yes dear readers, still under construction, and with girlish excitement he cried, "quick, quick, look what I've done!" pointing wildly at a bit of old futon base with slats missing. This object has lived happily on the woodpile in the woods for several moons now, enjoying the fascinating process of decay which woodlands are good at. Now it spanned our little stream.
"What?" I said, a bit confused as usual.
"I've made a bridge!" he cried with joy, and immediately demonstrated its bridge-like properties by stomping across, lucky he was wearing his wellies for yes dear readers a quick wobble and a brief vascillation and Poo was in the stream yet again.
What is it about Poo and that stream? He spends a lot of time falling into it bless him.
"No, no," he replied as the jolly troll engulfed herself in hysterics and began staggering about on the bank, "it really does work, look it's fine now" and he demonstrated successfully avoiding the missing slats this time. "We can carry the old bench across now and put it in that golden spot of evening sun near the waterfally bit!"
I reluctantly agreed. The journey was perilous, the alleged bridge boinging and sproinging wildly with the load of two people and an old wooden bench, and of course I had pretty shoes on - there are standards to maintain here, after all - which sank pitifully into the muddy banks, but never mind, the bench got safely to the other side. (no, not that Other Side dear).
The bench looked so lovely, in its golden spot beside a trickly little waterfall that ploops and sploshes and tinkles so attractively that I simply had to try it out. A seat in the mellow evening sun, listening to the birdsong and the said plooping etc of the water!
Oh yes, avert your eyes now if you are of a sensitive nature, for in a ghastly air-splitting groan of dowels parting from their moorings, the jolly troll's derriere passed straight through the seat and there was Matron with her ar*e on the grass and her legs sticking straight up and pointing at the sky! Poo was reeling around in delirious joy, meanwhile the old bench let rip a final sort of belch of tearing wood and kindly wrapped itself around the remains of Matron's dignity. Quite weak from laughter (and bladder control getting weaker all the time) it was simply impossible for Matron to extricate herself from the melee. Poo eventaully pitched in with a helping hand, but the operation sadly blew a fuse several times before the rescue was complete.
Need I add that this all took place in full view of the new arrivals who were being shown into the holiday cottage by WesterWitch. Oh, well, it seemed to lend an air of general jollity, and within a couple of seconds the hills were resounding to the sound of merry giggling all round.
