A hot POTATO

Do the Dears want to live with Potato Pete?

- Rosie x

The woods are very quiet at this time of year, and for a few minutes Mr D and I trudged along in companionable silence.

We probably weren’t as socially distanced as we might have been, even as a household bubble, but if we walk more than 3ft apart, then Mr Dear bellows all our private business in a voice so loud that it can probably be heard in the town hall, even in rooms where noisy vacuum cleaners are operating.

It was in such a voice that he finally broke the silence. ‘Does she think I’m decrepit or something?’ he said tetchily. The dog looked up at him, but decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

‘I’m sure she wasn’t thinking that at all,’ I said briskly, ‘but we have to face facts – neither of us is getting any younger.’

Mr D responded to this by snorting in the manner of a large and bad-tempered bull, who has just spotted a rambler wearing a bright red anorak trying to cross his field.

‘I’m not going,’ said Mr D, ‘and that’s that. I like living here.’