Well, Harold followed me along the passage way that Niece has decorated to resemble a Portrait Gallery; not of long dead relatives, but of her endless forays into gardening. She has had a cacti garden; a water garden which came to a quick end ... the sprinkler system switched itself off whilst we were all away on a two-month visit to my sister, Niece's Mother, in the 'old country'. Nothing but dry wizened plants on our return! She dabbled in roses, decided the thorns were too brutal to tender hands; she turned her hand to orchids; and even planted out a vegetable garden after watching a re-run of The Good Life on TV. The whole effect is overwhelming; gardens of all varieties the length of the passageway!
Harold and I sat down comfortably. I was in half a mind whether to show him the old photos, or whether we should simply play Scrabble, though that idea I quickly relegated to the back of my mind when that word 'Canasta' flitted across my half closed eyes like a flickering old black and white movie. Harold began a long rambling conversation about a car he had owned when a teenager. Dear Diary, I know nothing about cars. I do actually ... they take one from Point A to Point B.
My mind was wandering to the long country drives I had with Darling Bobby, and I was smiling to myself as I recalled how we stopped to picnic in a secluded glade, where I suspect Bobby Junior was conceived ... I could feel the blush rising to my cheeks and hurriedly changed the pathway of my thinking. My eyes were closed. It is easier to travel into the past when the present is not visible.
Suddenly I felt something on my arm. In the beginning I assumed it was Harold trying to be amorous ... he has embarked on strange conversations regarding loneliness, and how lovely it would be to have a companion to live with. I ignore those comments! The tickling began again, but it did not feel like a human hand. My eyes shot open. I screamed. There, running down the front of my cardigan sleeve was a mouse. I screamed again ... loud and long! Harold jumped up, and upon noticing my distress, climbed onto the bed in an effort to dodge the mouse.
Dear Diary ... until this moment I considered Harold a gentleman, a gentleman who would rush to the aid of a lady in distress. Dear Diary Harold is a wimp!
In chorus we let out an ear-splitting scream, Niece ran into the room, noticed the cause of our agitation, and grabbing a nearby broom proceeded to chase the mouse out of the room. Whew! Dear Diary, I badly need another cup of tea!
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