Our living room has what they refer to as a feature window. It is huge. Takes up practically the whole wall, with door to the garden at the side.
This means we can sit on the sofa and look out like Simba in the Lion King and say, we own all we can see, if you only look at the bit between the fence at the back and the two hedges at the side.
Two Saturdays ago, I was not working, but my husband was. This is a rare treat on two levels. It means I get to sit on my bahookie all evening, and have sole rights over the remote control. It’s the cue for a night of codswallop on the telly, whilst dining on Haribo sweeties and popcorn, all washed down with Chateau Offere Specialle de Tesco (white).
You might recall it was a fairly warm evening. In fact, to quote Meatloaf, “it was a hot summer night and the beach was burning/there was fog crawling over the sand”. It’s always surprised me that a bloke from America could create such a perfectly accurate picture of haar-bound Portobello,
Even I tire of televisual junk food eventually. Time for bed. I glanced out over the clan lands, and suddenly realised that someone was running at high speed right towards the window.
My first thought was that the zombie apocalypse had started. And secondly, that the undead have been training, since this one was moving at a fair old rate of knots. The high-speed interloper had cleared our fence and was making like Usain Bolt in my direction.
The back door was locked, so I knew the castle keep was secure, but it didn’t matter, because my running man didn’t make it that far. He stumbled about a bit, then vaulted over the wall into the neighbour’s garden.
I shot upstairs to see what was going on and, as a result, I was looking out of the bedroom window in time to see our athletic late-night jogger come back over the same wall.
He didn’t quite clear it this time. He was stuck less than five feet beneath me, but horror of horrors, he had his hand on my husband’s greenhouse, and even as I hammered on the window, stove one of the panels in. I’m not having that. The tomatoes are just starting to do well.
According to a witness in the house, I flew downstairs like Black Agnes at Dunbar Castle, and roared into the night the screaming a deathless battle cry, ‘Oi, get off my husband’s tomatoes’. He vanished, but not because of a small angry Glaswegian with a burning mission to save her husband’s lovingly tended toms, but because the neighbour and his son, both strapping fellows, had also come out.
It’ll all come out in the wash
For some time now I have hankered after one of those whirligig things in our garden to dry clothes on.
We’ve got a washing line, but it annoys me. It goes right across the window, and the sight of men’s undies flapping in a spring breeze can put a bit of a downer on the most beautiful days.
The washing line stays now.
Our fast-moving garden invader may well have had notions of getting in, but he ran straight into said stretched and all but invisible line.
Post D-Day, I believe the Resistance in France employed the same tactic to take down German motorcyclists.
Who would have thought a washing line would be such an effective deterrent? Bet it works against zombies, too.
The washing line definitely stays.
Harmonious protesters hit the right note
Many thanks to everyone who came along to the Perfect Harmony Musical Rally at the Canongate Kirk last week. A wonderful mix of people from the city came along, determined to ensure new life for the Old Royal High as a school.
As a predicted, it was the most harmonious protest rally ever.
The pupils of St Mary’s Music School blew the roof off with world-class performances. I’m not sure if you can describe a performance of Bach as being given laldy, but believe me, it was.
As a vertically challenged person myself, I was particularly impressed by one of the double bass players, a young woman so petite she could have slept in the instrument case in an emergency, like Luke Skywalker sheltering inside the Tauntaun during the snowstorm.
Tiny she may be, but she tamed that double bass.
I’ll make short work of this
Our elected representatives, with one exception, didn’t manage to make it along. No doubt they were incredibly busy.
Worry not, lads and lassies. I shall save you time by popping up in front of you in unexpected places to put the case for a fabulous new home for those incredibly talented lads and lassies.
Never doubt the power of short Scottish women. You can’t see us coming till it’s too late.