Pond Life
Stephen pushed his glasses back onto his nose with an unusual degree of certainty. "We will not" he said "be allowing anyone to play near the pond, I have high hopes for the pond, this year."
Alison smiled tightly "they're not 'anyone', Steve, they're your daughters".
Said daughters, Jacinta and Iolanthe, were engaged in one of their preferred games, a ferocious assault upon an elderly teddy bear called Mr Buggles. One arm was close to giving up the ghost. Stephen shuddered, and averted his gaze. "Quite, we need to fence it off. we can't have them disturbing it."
Stephen's dream was a close-up photo of some fauna from his pond, perhaps a Great Ramshorn snail, or a Water Boatman, making it onto the calendar for the BBC's "Pondwatch" programme, in which a number of people he vaguely recognised enthusiastically watched ponds, and encouraged others to do likewise. Two years ago, his friend Alan had taken a photograph of a Broad-bodied chaser which had been innocently resting at the side of his pond and submitted it. It had been selected, and Alan hadn't shut up about it since. Stephen had spent a significant amount of money on cameras in the interim, but his pond had remained stubbornly devoid of wildlife. No frogs, no newts, not even a whirligig beetle. Just still water, and an increasing amount of algae.
In her heart, Alison committed murder for the third time that day. The second involving Stephen. She'd also thought fondly of driving off a cliff with Jacinta and Iolanthe still in the back, but had yet to work out a way where she emerged alive. "And who, Steve, will be fencing the pond off? Will that be you?"
Stephen laughed, nervously "I thought we could get a man in.."
And so it was that a local handyman by the name of Ringo (don't ask, he'll go on for hours) found himself trying to stretch the incredibly simple task of putting some chickenwire up around a small pond into a period of time long enough to justify the fifty quid he was getting paid. But still, the woman who'd asked was all right. He probably would. And he got a brew. Eventually he couldn't string it out any further, and, bending the last nail over with some regret, he announced that he was done.
"Sure fine whatever thanks" said Alison, handing him five tenners (one of them Scottish, which would cause Ringo all manner of grief that evening). He tried to catch her eye. He failed. Her eye was firmly on the far corner of the garden, where Jacinta and Iolanthe were, to her grim satisfaction, methodically demolishing the bird table that Stephen had had a man build after Alan had had a photo accepted for the BBC's "Birdtablewatch" calendar.
Obviously, by this point a Blue-tailed Damselfly had stopped by the pond and sunned itself for an indecent period of time. Certainly long enough to get a pretty good photo. But Stephen was hiding inside until Ringo had gone, and you already knew something like that was going to happen, I imagine.
Alison smiled tightly "they're not 'anyone', Steve, they're your daughters".
Said daughters, Jacinta and Iolanthe, were engaged in one of their preferred games, a ferocious assault upon an elderly teddy bear called Mr Buggles. One arm was close to giving up the ghost. Stephen shuddered, and averted his gaze. "Quite, we need to fence it off. we can't have them disturbing it."
Stephen's dream was a close-up photo of some fauna from his pond, perhaps a Great Ramshorn snail, or a Water Boatman, making it onto the calendar for the BBC's "Pondwatch" programme, in which a number of people he vaguely recognised enthusiastically watched ponds, and encouraged others to do likewise. Two years ago, his friend Alan had taken a photograph of a Broad-bodied chaser which had been innocently resting at the side of his pond and submitted it. It had been selected, and Alan hadn't shut up about it since. Stephen had spent a significant amount of money on cameras in the interim, but his pond had remained stubbornly devoid of wildlife. No frogs, no newts, not even a whirligig beetle. Just still water, and an increasing amount of algae.
In her heart, Alison committed murder for the third time that day. The second involving Stephen. She'd also thought fondly of driving off a cliff with Jacinta and Iolanthe still in the back, but had yet to work out a way where she emerged alive. "And who, Steve, will be fencing the pond off? Will that be you?"
Stephen laughed, nervously "I thought we could get a man in.."
And so it was that a local handyman by the name of Ringo (don't ask, he'll go on for hours) found himself trying to stretch the incredibly simple task of putting some chickenwire up around a small pond into a period of time long enough to justify the fifty quid he was getting paid. But still, the woman who'd asked was all right. He probably would. And he got a brew. Eventually he couldn't string it out any further, and, bending the last nail over with some regret, he announced that he was done.
"Sure fine whatever thanks" said Alison, handing him five tenners (one of them Scottish, which would cause Ringo all manner of grief that evening). He tried to catch her eye. He failed. Her eye was firmly on the far corner of the garden, where Jacinta and Iolanthe were, to her grim satisfaction, methodically demolishing the bird table that Stephen had had a man build after Alan had had a photo accepted for the BBC's "Birdtablewatch" calendar.
Obviously, by this point a Blue-tailed Damselfly had stopped by the pond and sunned itself for an indecent period of time. Certainly long enough to get a pretty good photo. But Stephen was hiding inside until Ringo had gone, and you already knew something like that was going to happen, I imagine.
posted by Matt at 4:54 PM
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