THE BOTTOM OF MY GARDEN

The bottom of my garden

So today, I was sitting in the garden enjoying a G&T when I heard a voice emanating from the public footpath the other side of the hedge – “Is that art?”

I began to feel a tad depressed.

And then I remembered that yesterday, when I was actually on the public footpath looking for feathers, that I met a young family – Mum, Dad and two sons.

Mum – “We love your sculptures!”

Dad – “Do you specialise in metal work?”

Me – “I learnt welding and casting at college but nearly everything you see is made of wood. I’ve come up with a cunning plan to disguise wood as bronze and the letters on the sign are made from Flashband …”

Dad – “Oh yes … messy stuff.”

Me – “ … cut out with scissors.”

Dad … “Surely you have to …?”

Me – “Exactly! After every cut I have to clean the scissors with turps.”

Dad – “Blimey.”

Kids – “Brilliant.”

It’s very difficult to remember the nice, interesting things that people say. Something about the human condition makes us only remember the negative things that happen to us. I’ve noticed this many times, both with myself and folk that I know.

Humans are ridiculous.

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