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Thursday, 26 January 2012

FIve a day and no where to play

I had been to my allotment and had a boot stuffed with veg and fruit.  As I was unloading, a curious little urchin, having nothing better to do on a Sunday morning than kick a ball in the street, strolled over to the car just as I pulled out a basket of raspberries.

'What's tha?' he asked curiously.   I grabbed a handful and shoved them in my mouth making appreciative noises thinking I could get him to taste a new food.

'Ummmm, they're raspberries, have some,  they're really nice.' He looked very doubtful so I gave him one and with some encouragement  he bravely put it in his mouth. A smile lit up his little face.

'Do you like them?'
'Yeh, they're nice.'
'Well have some more then' and I filled his outstretched hands before he ran off to tell his umpteen brothers and sisters who all wanted some too.

After that he and I became firm friends and he would hang around whenever  I was working in the front garden.  Curious as a magpie, he wanted to know the whys and wherefores of everything and kept up a running commentary of fascinating insights into his tumultuous family life. Nine children in a three bedroom house could hardly have been a bed of roses.

One Sunday morning while I was at my allotment, my sister came over with her dogs and left them in the garden while she went in for a cup of tea. When I drew up outside, my little friend  was  hanging over the gate engrossed in something that was going on behind the privet hedge.   Just then my sister appeared with a bowl of water.

'Hey, Miss,' he cried, 'what are them dog's doing?'  The dog breeder rose to the occasion and gave him a very matter of fact explanation in an accent that would not have been out of place at Crufts.

'Well, this one's Molly and she's a bitch and she's on heat which means she wants to make babies. This one,' she pointed to the humping  offender, 'is Danny and he's trying to make babies with her but he can't, thank God.'  The lad's brow puckered as he grappled with this overload of information. 

'So' he reasoned , 'if she's a bitch,' he pointed at Molly 'does that make him a fucking bastard?'





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