It's a touch windy isn't it? Mackenzie doesn't like the wind, it gives him nightmares of ghouls and goblins and he spent last night sleeping between David and myself like a gently snoring contraceptive. Not that I felt much in the mood for anything romantic. The tree in our garden was swaying rythmically when I retired to my boudoir at 10.25pm. When I got up to visit the loo at ten past three it was practically running round the garden. I panicked at the thought of the whole thing crashing into Jack's garden (Jack is the Alan Titchmarsh of Nunhead) and onto his newly erected greenhouse and then couldn't get to sleep again. Mackenzie's gentle snores made a lovely backdrop for David's own groundshaking nasal offerings and I lay awake pondering broken glass, ruined seedlings and an angry Jack throwing bills for glaziers and garden centres through our letter box. I got up feeling 109.
The tree is still standing (for now), Mackenzie is bathed and ready to go into his own bed but has cunningly left Brown Bear on the end of our bed "just in case mummy" and my sister Bea is scouring her address book for the "wonderfully witty lumberjack darling that sorted us out in the summer". I fear it may be too late for lumberjacks as the wind is whipping itself up into a frenzy again - David has left the Yellow Pages open at "Glaziers" and is joining me in my early night.
1 comment:
Sister..........
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