When my mother had planted a hedge with new little shrubs and bluddy deer came down and ate best part of them, my then boyfriend volunteered to crouch overnight in the Futility Room with a crossbow, and enquired about freezer space. My mother burst into tears, and the poor sod had to work quite hard to be allowed any pudding. Which as it was the Ma’s rum & raisin cheesecake would have been a massive deprivation and he was only trying to help. Not that he’d have been any use at all - I’d seen his performance at pistol shooting and frankly it was a coo’s arse/banjo scenario anyway. All we would have had was a wounded deer and buckets moreful of tears.
The hedge recovered. So much so that this year - ach, about 27 years later, the Ma had to pay Men quite a lot of money to come and tame it and the rest of the mad garden things. She is no longer Sleeping Beauty.
And she is brave and grand girl, the Ma, because this morning she sounded distinctly wobbly, but she had her Christmas in the bosom of her late ‘friend’'s family and chummed up with a couple of smallies and was much cossetted by LF’s granddaughters and their partners and was far better tonight than this morning.
My mother is a force in the land, but even so, she’s getting a little more fragile these days, grand woman though she is.
Any glasses still needing emptying, you could raise them slightly westerley to Peggy