All work, NO PLAY

In which Mr D develops Fear Of Missing Out

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When I looked out of the kitchen window, Mr Dear was shouting at the hedge. He often shouts at the hedge. It was the sort of baking hot Sunday mornings when the park is full of men in Panama hats, dozing in deckchairs. I often think they are put there by the council, to lend a bit of tone to the place.

Mr Dear had already mown the lawn. Before that, he mowed our neighbour Carolyn's lawn because she's away for a fortnight.

Now he was cutting the back hedge, and it looked as if he'd had enough.

Five minutes later, the fifth emergency service had arrived on the scene. 'Here you are, love,' I said. 'I've made you a nice Pimm's.'

'Oh, this is a pleasant surprise,' he said, putting down the hedge cutter.

It was more of a surprise than he thought. It was originally going to be fizzy orange, but we'd run out.

'Hedge is looking nice,' I said.

Mr D grunted.

'And the lawn.'

'Grmmph,' said Mr D. Or something to that effect.

'And look at the flower beds. If they were any neater, we'd have to start opening to the public.'