I can’t believe it. When I got up and went outside this morning, Megan was poisoning all the wildflowers growing along the side of my driveway. When I approached her about it (she’d almost finished by the time I’d seen her), she said she thought it’d be OK, as we had spoken about it yesterday. Yes, we did speak about it yesterday, and I said I liked it as it was. So, now I have a whole lot of dead vegetation to get rid of, and no pretty flowers to look at when I drive up my driveway. Meanwhile, her front garden looks like a tip. I assume she’s going to do something about that soon as, apparently, she likes to keep the front of our houses looking neat.
This afternoon, inspired by the Wimbledon final, Donna and I went down to the local council tennis courts for a hit. It didn’t look too hard on TV. When we arrived at the courts one of them was being used, but we managed to snag the other one just before these four enthusiasts got out of their car, racquets in hand. They went off mumbling something about how every time tennis is on TV all these no hopers turn up at the courts, and that the regulars should be given some sort of priority. No hopers? I hope they weren’t referring to us.
Anyway, after about 10 minutes it was pretty clear that they probably were, especially as Donna kept whacking the ball over on to the other court and giggling and stopping for a chat after every point. The blokes on the other court were polite at first, but they soon got sick of us running into the middle of their rallies to retrieve our ball (we only had one, it was brown).
Donna and I are going to play every Sunday. We felt so virtuous afterwards, especially after a couple of glasses of wine in the pub.