The kids next door (and they’re not that young) sit outside with their snacks and sweets, and when they’ve finished, they tip them over the wall into Mum’s garden. I don’t think they have anything against her; they are just too lazy to walk to the bin.
Usually it’s over the low wall at the front, the rubbish being hidden behind the bushes, but today I looked down a very narrow space between our shed and the tall fence between us (it’s taller than we are); there was rubbish down there as well. Crisp and sweet packets, Lucozade bottles, lager cans, beer bottle caps, yoghurt pots, cigarette packets, fag ends… Mum says the father stands out there and smokes, but I assume the boys smoke too, and they’re surely the ones doing that. (If our shed ever burns down, I’ll know who to blame).
I used an edger (being the longest and thinnest of our garden tools) to scrape about half of the rubbish out (I couldn’t reach the stuff at the far end, but I might manage that later). It’s a very narrow area and the edger made quite a racket against the fence, but I can’t say I was sorry. It doesn’t sound like a particularly arduous exercise, but my shoulder froze up afterwards. The edger’s blade was on its side as the space was so narrow — try scraping sweetie papers and cigarette butts with that.
It might have been them who disposed of a soft toy rat in our garden (we washed it and gave it sanctuary); they also managed to lose a jacket over the wall, and when Mum handed it back, their puzzled mother said it was a recent purchase and she’d been wondering where it was.
Last night I saw part of a mechanics or car programme on TV; they had several old cars and were catapulting them off a cliff and watching them smash. The presenters were enjoying it hugely, but I couldn’t watch… it was too sad.
I still miss Sharky and can’t really talk about him, even jokingly. I said to Mum that Samson is Octopussy, my eight cat, and Delilah is my ninth cat — which meant that Sharky was 007. I opened my mouth to say that, and then I couldn’t, so I just shut up.
Saw the Jane Eyre drama (or the first part of it) on TV last night… I’ve never seen it all the way through, and still haven’t, unless I manage to catch the rest of it (and I’m not sure when it will be screened, or if I’ve already missed it). There’s a bit in the story where some supercilious lady put her foot in just about every cowpat around by saying that (1) poor, weak and disadvantaged people had ‘bad blood’ and shouldn’t be in the population, and (2) children didn’t have feelings any more than ‘that dog over there’ (pointing at her host’s pride and joy). I liked the way the dog stared back in blank astonishment while his owner’s face went stony.
All of this blog post is because there are still people out there who really believe others don’t have feelings, or don’t care that they have feelings, or haven’t considered that they have feelings. Feeling a bit stony myself.