A picturesque village in our neighbourhood was displaying its flower gardens today. Ambling peds and parked cars for two or three miles. Herself was keen to go so I dropped her, said I would pick her up in the same place and went off to replenish supplies of this and that in a nearby town.
I came back and waited half an hour parked in the shade reading an old Elmore Leonard novel. Eventually herself turned up. She wasn't through yet! There were more gardens she wanted to see! Why didn't I come too?
It's difficult for me to imagine a more purgatorial experience than standing in the sun getting hot looking at other people's gardens. I said I'd carry on waiting. Herself said oh go on, I'll walk back. It's a good couple of miles and I demurred, but she insisted. So I mimsed politely back through the ambling peds until they cleared and I could drive at a thrilling 40.
She got back soon after I did though. The other two women who do gardening here gave her a lift. Thanks to them, and to herself, I can see as many terrific flowers as I want just by looking out of the windows on three sides of this room, with nice lawns among them.
Village life, I can take it or leave it. Perhaps there's something wrong with me.
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