On the estate where pretend owls outnumber the human population by two to one, a woman was tending her plastic window boxes. She wore gold rimmed reactolites, pink marigold gloves, flip-flops and a grey fleece jacket and trouser combination. Her patio of pink stone flags with electric cabling running through the joints, is decorated with an assortment of garden ornamentation; a gnome riding on a snail’s shell, a pair of disembodied hands holding a small bird with a solar panel in its back and a lamp in its chest, a hedgehog riding a tractor etc. The poodle startled the sparrows from the beech hedge and made me jump. I nearly tripped over the top half of a woman with no arms.
“Oh, leave him alone, he gets paid for that”, said his wife from her plastic patio chair. She was thumbing through a magazine and smoking a cigarette.
“Aye,” said the man, “and the bin men get paid to take it away; the postman giveth and the bin man taketh away”.
“Aye, it keeps the world going round though dun’t it, love” said the woman, winking at me.