The Bushes Of Giving

I don’t know where you get your Jagermeister, but I get mine dropped off overnight in the rose bushes opposite our front door.

The garden’s cared for by the Council, but occasionally a sort of ad hoc Ocado comes into play, operating in a spirit of serendipity, and the bushes reveal a surprise.

Recently, for example, there was a can of Strongbow nestling among the petals. (Pear flavour. We’re nothing if not cosmopolitan round our way, none of your common or garden apple-based muck for the likes of us.)

Both items were shiny-new, sealed and ready to slurp. Which raises the question: what on earth were they doing there?

Because neither of these gifts from the gods of glugging is a drink selected for its delicate citrus notes and ability to accompany salmon en croute perfectly. They’re chosen more for their stripping-electrical-wiring-down-to-the-metal properties by people who are achieving long-term weight loss one brain cell at a time.

And if there’s one thing drinkers of this calibre have at the forefront of their hit-and-miss motor functions, it’s the ability to keep their claws wrapped firmly around the source of their temporary happiness until either every last drop is gone or oblivion arrives and they go bye-byes.

So they’d no more abandon good kidney-killer than turn down a Special Brew on the grounds that it tastes like it’s been squeezed from the bladder of a poorly horse.

That leaves only one explanation: winos on the march.

It’s a long way from the bandstand (where those who devotedly lay their livers on the line congregate in the morning to discuss matters of moment which have arisen overnight in the world of international politics) to the benches near the ring road (where they are to be found of a summer’s evening squabbling over White Lightning and shouting at the lorries).

And our house is en route.

My supposition is that, in a freak moment of clarity, one of the seekers of cirrhosis has thought ahead and left supplies for the long trek. A kind of boozers’ base camp on the climb to the summit of insobriety.

That would at least clarify the recent rose-bed revelations.

But it does nothing to explain why, yesterday morning, perched proudly midst the bushes, I found a pristine tin of SMA formula baby milk…

facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.