Thursday, April 29, 2010
forward, war, domestic
A prospect of lambs.
Paul, the gardener stops to talk about pests. I mention the pigeons which have now got used to the CDs hung up to scare them. After a year, they take for granted the presence of glancing lights scampering silently across the beds in the vegetable garden. The young pea plants are evenly nibbled at the edges of their sweet leaves, while the CDs hang ineffectively by. "It's like war," says Paul, "against intruders." Not for the likes of me, weapons of mass destruction. I must be content with a net of string round the peas in the hope that a few plants will survive.
From the pavement behind the hedge, a harsh voice reaches me. It is a woman scolding on a mobile phone. "No, they don't do things like that. It's going to rain this afternoon. That's why they hang wet washing all over the place". The voice disappears down the road. I find myself worrying not so much about the fate of the washing, as whether it will rain this afternoon. And what particularly are the arrangements for hanging out the washing? A vignette of domestic life retains a mystery.