350 feet of garden means an awful lot of hedge. Especially as the garden is 50 ft wide, too. Having given away his heavy petrol hedge trimmers last year, thinking that, after his strokes, he'd never be able to use them again, he decided to try and prune a veritable thicket of privet, bramble and conifers with the small electric ones. Bad idea. A nasty noise, a smell of burning plastic, followed by a sheet of flame and an electric shock sent Mr G flying over the hedge to land on his posterior in something prickly.
I was in Cornwall. Mr G only ever decides to do something dangerous when I am not around. Such as the day a few weeks after his strokes when he decided to see if he could cycle to town, 5 km each way. Going there is downhill and the brakes are on the right side of the bike. As his right hand was paralysed, he couldn't apply the brake and had to head full tilt into the railings surrounding the RAF camp in order to stop. Another bad idea.
Anyway, Mr G, who, if he had hair, would now resemble the chaps in the 118 118 TV ad, with brain slightly more addled than when I left for my holiday, has now bought some new heavy duty petrol trimmers on eBay. This morning he was up at 6, putting on his shoes "in case they arrive early." He keeps rushing to the front door (well, stumbling is a more accurate word), like a kid at Christmas, to see if his big present to himself has arrived yet. I sense another accident just waiting to happen...
Photo shows Mr G and Felix, aka Flad. (In other words, I named the cat Felix, Mr G insisted on calling him Flad, short for Flathead as, when he was a kit, the poor animal looked as if his head had been compressed in the birth canal and I jokingly called him Flathead, and now the poor creature has to answer to two main names plus a lot of minor ones, such as *$&*#*!)
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