My aged companion Crisp, whose mind was not as it used to be, had observed the old greenhouse on our Sunday afternoon walk.
“They’re not doing it right,” she announced as we looked across at it.
Clearly, it was overgrown and in disrepair but Crisp as so often in recent days was off on another tangent.
“You’ve got to keep the windows clean so the light can get in and do its magic,” she said pointing to it. “They won’t grow a thing in there if the windows aren’t clean.”
“Maybe there’s no one to clean the windows,” I proffered.
“Poppycock, there’s always someone to clean windows. You have to make an effort, use a bit of elbow grease, that’s what’s needed.”
She stood looking at it her body language suggesting anger and frustration.
“Come on,” I said, “Time for a cuppa.”
“I’d like a scone,” she said as she toddled off.