In our community garden, we get teams of kids from the local school who come to help, and they often turn up on Saturday mornings, as well. They’re almost entirely well-behaved, which is a good job as there’s not a lot we can do about bad behaviour beyond a stern voice. (Although, one time, a lad kicked one of our rabbits, so a girl brained him with a shovel — rough but effective justice.)
There’s this one lad who came for the first time last week. I didn’t know him, but we made him very welcome. He only lasted half an hour before storming off in tears after his THIRD telling off for spinning round and round holding a tool and then letting it fly off at head height.
This morning his mum (I assume) came with him. I saw him point out my friend and me, but he didn’t ask to join in, so after shouting hello, we let them be. After about ten minutes, he started wandering, and my friend shouted to him.
Friend: “Don’t go round behind the greenhouse, mate! It’s not safe round there!”
Well, his mum had obviously been waiting for this; she went 0 to 100 in two seconds flat.
Mum: “Do you own this garden? If not, what business is it of yours where my son goes?!”
Friend: “We just want him to be safe, ma’am.”
Mum: “I’m quite capable of taking care of that myself, thank you.”
Fine. On you go.
Off he went, exploring behind the greenhouse. It’s not safe because the compost heap is back there, which is very unstable, and the muck mound, which is a giant pile of horse manure we get delivered every autumn. By the spring, the inside is all nice and rotted down, and the outside is hard, crusty… and less strong than you think.
After a minute there was a crunch, a squeal… and I think we did very well to drag him out without saying, “I told you so,” or breaking into guffaws. He was absolutely black from chest height downward, and although well-rotted manure doesn’t smell really bad, it is very thick, sticky, and slimy.
From Not Always Right :
In our community garden, we get teams of kids from the local school who come to help, and they often turn up on Saturday mornings, as well. They’re almost entirely well-behaved, which is a good job as there’s not a lot we can do about bad behaviour beyond a stern voice. (Although, one time, a lad kicked one of our rabbits, so a girl brained him with a shovel — rough but effective justice.)
There’s this one lad who came for the first time last week. I didn’t know him, but we made him very welcome. He only lasted half an hour before storming off in tears after his THIRD telling off for spinning round and round holding a tool and then letting it fly off at head height.
This morning his mum (I assume) came with him. I saw him point out my friend and me, but he didn’t ask to join in, so after shouting hello, we let them be. After about ten minutes, he started wandering, and my friend shouted to him.
Friend: “Don’t go round behind the greenhouse, mate! It’s not safe round there!”
Well, his mum had obviously been waiting for this; she went 0 to 100 in two seconds flat.
Mum: “Do you own this garden? If not, what business is it of yours where my son goes?!”
Friend: “We just want him to be safe, ma’am.”
Mum: “I’m quite capable of taking care of that myself, thank you.”
Fine. On you go.
Off he went, exploring behind the greenhouse. It’s not safe because the compost heap is back there, which is very unstable, and the muck mound, which is a giant pile of horse manure we get delivered every autumn. By the spring, the inside is all nice and rotted down, and the outside is hard, crusty… and less strong than you think.
After a minute there was a crunch, a squeal… and I think we did very well to drag him out without saying, “I told you so,” or breaking into guffaws. He was absolutely black from chest height downward, and although well-rotted manure doesn’t smell really bad, it is very thick, sticky, and slimy.
(contd)