English people are so peculiar sometimes.
Audrey and I were walking past a middle-aged man in the park earlier today when he suddenly slipped and fell over. I thought he’d had a stroke.
For a few seconds he simply lay there motionless on the wet grass, like a stunned carp. I didn’t know how to respond. I just stood looking down at him.
Then, as if he had woken from an unintentional nap, he shook his head and jumped to his feet. Dusting himself down, he said: ‘Oh I say! I do apologise, I really do. Lovely weather, isn’t it.’
He marched off in the direction of the council offices in the village, whistling happily to himself as he went. Audrey was looking up at me as if to say: ‘How odd.’
This pleasant fellow, whoever he was, and the welcome sunshine this morning have caused my spirits to lift considerably. So much so, in fact, that I might make myself a Pimm’s and lemonade this afternoon and venture into the garden to check on the broad beans and to fondle a few pansies.
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You see an awful lot of men lying on the pavements in that London. Usually they are covered in vomit and urine. I give them a wide birth, as I do the fondling pansies.
‘I give them a wide birth’ – eh!? You been giving birth to street people again, Nelson?
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