Knocks on my door make me nervous, especially on a Sunday
when it might be somebody trying to sell me the secret to finding a clear route
through the pearly gates and a place among the heavenly host. I opened the door
anyway, and standing on the threshold were two little girls – one aged five and
one seven – bearing a bottle of scotch (unopened.) I spoke nicely to both of
them and relieved the 7-year-old of the weight she was carrying. See what a
nice guy I am? The full story is far too boring to be worth telling. Being
approached by two sweet kids bearing Bell’s
whisky (unopened) was the icing on a mud pie.
* * *
The eggs in the blue tits’ nest box have evidently hatched
because both parents are now engaged in flying madly back and forth carrying
food on the inbound flight. Soon they’ll be carrying faecal sacs the other way.
I watch them while I’m engaged in the tedious business of washing the dishes, which is another example of icing on
a mud pie.
* * *
The wild garlic in The Hollow is now in full bloom, dressing
the earthen embankment in swathes of white drapery. It looks all quite
spectacular, and do you know what it puts me in mind of? Icing on a mud pie. To
avoid any confusion, I believe the Americans call icing ‘frosting.’ I’ve no idea what they call mud pies.
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