Digging Up His Old Potatoes

Yesterday evening was a bit stormy here as we walked home. There were little rivers of water running past the studio door when we left. It was dark already and I sometimes wonder about The Owner... well ok, so I, along with half the population of Wiltshire wonder about The Owner (the other half have clearly not met him yet). He turned off the heating in the studio and then the lighting and THEN fumbles for his keys. Then came the start of a downward spiral of the journey home, first foot out of the door went straight into the river running past. There was much mumbling about wet feet and stuff as we started our journey home. I swear that on such journeys he closes his eyes or switches them off or something. Can hoomuns switch their eyes off? As we neared the edge of the road at the end of the farm track, a journey of all of ten yards, he encountered the first obstacle. The farm wheelie bin had taken to laying on its side across the track, either that or it was blown over by the wind. The Owner clearly still had his eyes switched off as he fell straight over the top of it! A sorry picture he made, sat in the middle of the track with the little river running either side of him and the lid on the wheelie bin at such an angle I felt sure it was laughing at him.. The journey home was little better with two cars driving through the puddle right in front of him. I don't mind them doing it to him but they got to me too and I was beginning to have a certain amount of sympathy with him to be honest. I kept a respectful distance until we got to our front gate when I decided a quick hop across the ditch, up the side of the hedge and a nimble jump across the stream and onto the lawn would be best. Well, as we approached the gate I noticed that the four wheelie bins from the cottage and our neighbours had also had a bit of a falling out with the wind, or perhaps just fell over. Which The Owner did too because he still had his eyes turned off. By the time The Owner had extricated himself from the tangle of bins by the gate I was already sat by the back door with the security light on for him. He arrived with water running from his trouser pockets, his Barbour jacket was proving just how waterproof it was by not letting the water, which had got in his pockets whilst he was sat in the puddles, back out. It did escape of course when he stuck his hand in his pockets to look for his keys and his phone. I think I have just invented the theory of displacement. I will spend my evening trying not to do anything to incur the wrath which was undoubtedly building inside him I thought.

By this morning the weather was feeling much better and appeared to be quite chipper. The sun was out and the garden was a scene of devastation. The tins from the recycles box were all across the path and the newspapers were stuck to everything like a coat of paper mache. With some poster paints we could have made a full scale model of the cottage! He was in a right old tizzy about it all and I thought he would cheer him up. But what to do? Then the plan hit upon me! When he went back in for his second cup of tea and presumably to get some more poster paints I went up the garden. I had seen him up there at the weekend burying a load of old potatoes. Now when I manage to bury stuff that I want, I am always so pleased when The Owner digs them up for me. So I dug them all up and took them back to the cottage and left them all by the back door. The Owner will be pleased, I thought. It may cheer him up a little when he comes out of the back out again. 

I think he may be sickening for something, he seemed to frown a great deal when he came out of the back door!