Tuesday, March 16, 2010


A few minutes ago I was in the loungeroom when I spied through our lacy curtains The Child From Next Door, creeping, sneaking and generally insinuating herself into our front yard.  Clutched to her shirred cotton bodice was a small plastic container.

Was it an ice-cream container? An old take-away container that had lost its lid? Perhaps a margarine tub? Or did it once hold I Can't Believe It's Not Butter?  These questions are neither important, nor interesting.  Just leave it alone and let me get on with the story, will you?

Looking furtively from side to side, with those narrowed eyes that the young have when they know they are alone and free to be evil, The Child slunk up to a fine shrubbery and began plucking blossoms from it to fill her container.

I observed this, horrified.  Well, maybe not horrified.  Probably just a bit surprised, to be honest.  It's a nice shrubbery, but not so nice that I would expect it to inspire this premeditated crime.

Of course, as is my way, vague surprise gave way to indignation, spluttering rage and chest pains.  I clenched all my clenchables and mulled over my options:

a:  Do nothing.
b:  Reinforce any image the family has of me as the "Crazy Woman Next Door Who Is Often Outside In Her Pyjamas Cussing At The Lemon Tree" by running outside with unbrushed hair, screaming at The Child and clawing back my blossoms, then throwing Stuart at her little fleeing floral back.
c:  Plan to steal something of theirs.

For me, laziness is always the most attractive option, so I sit here with a partially de-blossomed shrubbery while The Child is off enjoying her booty.


  1. Sick Ellen on her. Really, Canberra doesn't allow fences? But it does allow plunderous small girls?

  2. It's true, livebird. Both things were part of Walter Burley Griffin's strange vision.


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