15 July 2013
“Oh what a beautiful morning,” sing to self as get out of bed, “Oh what a beautiful day,” draw back curtains to let in sunshine. “I’ve got a wonderful feeeeeling…….”
Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang on front door.
Could it be postie bringing me surprise parcel or friend popping round for early morning cuppa? Open window and look down. No, is old lady. Can’t see face only top of old lady bun resembling nicotine yellow birds nest.
“Well, what you going to do about it?” she demands glaring up at me, resting aggressively on orthopaedic stick.
“Sorry?” I question, gathering my nightie, (well shoddy holy vest), protectively around me.
“Are you deaf?” she barked, “I said what are you going to do about it?”
Speaking of barking, where was Lady Doodles when she was needed? Was I be being targeted again? It was rotten eggs and flower all over my front door the last time; closely followed by an unused (thankfully) condom placed meaningfully on a visiting male friend’s car as a warning presumably not to have sex with me.
“About what?” I asked her. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be clutching any eggs or waving any condoms, used or otherwise.
“Your bloody tree,” she spat.
“My tree?”
“It’s ruining my bloody garden.”
My tree is a well behaved, happy tree, at least as far as I know. It is not a loutish Leylandi or a manically depressed Willow, continuously weeping all over the place. It just stands there, day after day, minding its own business, enjoying the current heat wave along with the rest of us. Apart from this bad tempered old crone it seems.
“It’s crawling through my fence and causing havoc,” she waves her orthopaedic stick in the air.
A mobile tree? And an agile one to boot if it can crawl through fences. Must be going walkabout at night. Old lady obviously more mobile than letting on as can jump up and down on spot, which is what she is doing right now without aid of stick. Stick obviously devious ploy in order to reap more benefits.
“Ah! Do you mean the ivy?” Realisation suddenly dawns of me.
I do have a Russian vine which is living up to its name by Russian all over the place.
“You’ve been told time and time again by ‘er next door,” she waves her stick in my neighbours direction.
Come to think of it my neighbour had mentioned it in passing.
“You’d better do something about it right away,” she warns, wagging crooked finger, “or am informing tut council.”
Well that ruined my day, didn’t it? Had to spend it lopping down vines and creepers with my machete/kitchen knife. Was a veritable mountain by time had finished. Didn’t lop it all down though, didn’t want old bun face poking her bony nose through fence and witnessing me sunbathing in my M&S knickers. Hopefully she can rest in peace now – don’t mean that literally. But at least she no longer has reason to come round shaking her stick at me.
The expression to shake a stick at usually means to have a very large number of something. For example – I don’t know why she wants more shoes – she’s already got more pairs than you can shake a stick at.
You can apparently have so much money you can’t shake a stick at it – although I wouldn’t know about that.
According to one more urban definition – Shaking a stick is supposed to be intimidatin’. But when something is too big shaking a gosh dang stick won’t do diddley squat. I’ll tell you what.
Did you hear that old lady?
That’s exactly what I’m going to say to her if she comes round again with her gosh dang stick – diddley squat.
