Shit Garden Of The Year Two

7th March 2007

Fortunately I’m feeling a lot better today so was able to take in the culmination of Plan B of Shit Garden Of The Year. The plan was put into operation two weeks ago when I phoned the owner of the aforementioned Shit Garden. The call was answered by the title holder’s wife.
“Hello?”
“This is the High Peak Borough Council, Mr Lloyd, Public Affairs and Events speaking,” I lied. “Could I speak to your husband?”
“What for? Only he’s doing his pigeons and he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s doing his pigeons.”
“Well whatever he’s doing to this pigeons, legal or otherwise, I can assure you that it will be worth his while to tear himself away from them for a short while.”
“I’ll see what he says.”
“It will probably be ‘Coo’ “ I said, but I think she’d gone. Half a minute later the man of the house came on the line. “What do you want?” This said in a tone more suspicious than a milk bill.
“Princess Anne, the Princess Royal, is visiting the Borough two weeks hence and she has expressed the desire to visit a typical house within the borough. We held a raffle and your house came out of the hat.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Hello? Are you still there.”
I heard the woman’s voice in the background. “What is it? What’s the matter Gerald?”
“Two fucking princesses are going to visit our house!”
I saw where he had gone wrong and put him right. “No, it’s only one princess. Princess Anne and The Princess Royal are one and the same. And I don’t think she’ll be doing any fucking either, this isn’t Fergie we’re talking about here.”
“No.” A pause, then, “What do we have to do?”
“Not a thing. Her Royal Highness has expressed a wish that you shouldn’t go to any special trouble. I believe it’s usual to offer her a cup of tea. And maybe a cucumber sandwich. ”
“Get a cucumber Deidre.”
“Perhaps she could partake of the refreshment in the garden if the weather is clement?”
“Right, in the garden.”
“Now you’re not to go to any special trouble, Princess Anne wouldn’t like that.”
“No. No special trouble.”
“And keep it to yourself.“
“Right.”
“I’ll confirm the arrangements to you by letter.”
Atkins Down The Road and I went round to the house in question at the appointed hour this afternoon. The garden, of course, was immaculate. The exterior of the house had been cleaned up and newly painted as well. Red, white and blue bunting decorated the façade. It looked a real picture. A small crowd, maybe about a hundred and fifty, many with small union flags, had gathered. The former owner of the Shit Garden of the Year and his wife were waiting, all smiles, at the open doorway, awaiting the arrival of Princess Anne. I don’t know how long they waited for, Atkins and I gave it five minutes then left, happier campers.
 

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