Monday, November 12, 2007

Pig Out

Under the cosh with multiple deadlines for multiple editors at the moment, the cumulative effects being that everything I'm writing reads like a chimp wrote it, plus there's bugger all time to fix it.

Which is why I was so happy to spend an hour of precious, precious time in the garden at the weekend. Hunting.

It was my daughter's turn to look after the school guinea pigs, you see - the bizarrely monickered Piccolo and Oboe. Now from the little I've seen, guinea pigs are up there with goldfish on the boring pets stakes. They just sit there.

Until someone opens the cage, then they're off like fat, stumpy little greyhounds, diving into the thickest, nastiest vegetation possible and looking back at you with 'Well, come and get us' faces.

Every time I got close, they'd redeploy to distant parts of the bushes. After an hour, I was about to resort to the Troughton Manoeuvre ('Bung a rock at it') when the first one got close enough to grab. Robbed of his playmate, the second followed soon after.

And that's how I came to be in the garden, cut to bits by thorns, eaten alive by mosquitoes and my feet finding new deposits of dog leavings every minute or so, all hidden away by my faithful hound where there was no chance anyone would ever, ever set foot.

Oh, and how I came to be not writing.


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