Better than TV.

Being devoid of human idiocy our back garden is a picture this sunny morn. No I can’t do it, not even for the sake of mock poetic resonance, it’s ‘morning.’ From the wonderful ‘taller than me’ sunflower nodding its sunrise sunbeam to the bedroom window, to all the colours in pots, to three of our cats playing amongst them, it’s a picture. But wait, three cats in close proximity is a little unusual this early and it not at Sheba time. Britney is waiting Sphinx-like for something to happen, Betty is Essex-ing on her back displaying her Ann Summers shop front and Domino is stealth-mode-ing towards the back of a long container of blue and white Lobelias. Mothermouse is first to spot it. “Something’s going on.” As Domino disappears a wing appears. A pigeon. Quickly the garden constabulary, me, goes into action. I break up the rioters intent on GBH, slowly approach and quickly grab the pigeon, then shout for Mothermouse to open the door of our protection facility. I begin to feel slightly envious that our shed has had more birds than I have, but then it is marginally older. Then Antonmouse is requiring of a chum to go biking so we broom off to a café and meet other bikers who can afford a new bike and the time off, i.e. pensioners. And we pensioners are not short of stories. It’s interesting how some weave in daring exploits, some technical wizardry and others self-deprecating daring technical wizard exploits along the lines of, “the older I get the faster I went” variety; a true biker’s ego fest. Back home Antonmouse tells of a friend who, in an effort to placate a wife, a mistress and a live in current girlfriend, has announced he has SAD, Social Avoidance Disorder. Well the guy’s got balls, that’s for sure. And people watch Hollyoaks! What’s that about?