MIXED BUT GENERALLY SATISFACTORY

The sun shone down today. That cheered me, despite the 39 bare patches on the back lawn, caused by an incontinent dog, all of which demanded my attention. The technique is always the same. Kneel down, cut round the bare bit with a garden fork, lift out the soil with a trowel, place it on the riddle, riddle the soil back, spread on the lawn seed, best done with a quick flick of the wrist, pour on some compost from the home compost heap, flatten the soil with a bit of wood, and water it. I then look down to see that the home compost soil is covered with eggshells that have never rotted down, teabags that have never properly decomposed, and the 'Outspan' labels that stayed behind when the oranges rotted. Still, at least I know which bald bits I've done, because they are neatly marked by minute pieces of eggshell, teabags and Outspan labels. I finished the 39 steps and took the incontinent dog for a walk. I saw a Chinese cook sitting at the back of the Silver Bamboo restaurant near the High Street, drawing deeply on a cigarette. He was eyeing the two of us. I looked at him and thought "Keep your eyes off the dog - there's no way your getting him on the menu." The kids had been having a barbecue in the Park. I could tell because the grass was burned where they had lit the barbecue and the section beside the tennis courts was covered in discarded white paper plates. I had the impression that they had left in a hurry, perhaps when the ghastly muck they had been eating had started to worm its way through their digestive system. In any case, they had left behind a sealed packet of streaky Bacon, fresh from the supermarket. I pocketed that. I saw Matthew on the way home. "I met Billy Connolly last week" he said, chirpily. "What was he like?" I asked. "Just an ordinary chap", he replied. "An ordinary chap with several millions of pounds," I reminded him. The incontinent dog saw a small ginger cat reposing in the middle of the road where traffic passes at over 50 miles per hour if the drivers are under 25 and male, even though it's a 30 mph speed limit. He wouldn't have survived 5 minutes. We chased him away to safety and I felt virtuous for so doing. Later, as the daylight faded like a grey wash on a watercolour, I recalled the joke my tennis-playing friend John had told me yesterday. A husband and wife were in the kitchen. Suddenly, the wife came up behind the husband and fetched him over the head with a frying-pan. "What the Hell did you do that for?" he asked, somewhat petulantly. "I was looking through your papers and found that you had written "Rose Marie at 16:30." "Oh, that," said the husband, nonplussed. "That's the name of a horse I've backed in the four-thirty at Market Rasen." The wife apologised profusely and applied sticking-plaster to the wound. The next day, the husband was again sitting in the kitchen when the wife came in and fetched him another one, this time with the sole of the flat-iron. "I'm getting fed up of this," said the husband "What the Hell was that for?" "Your horse has just been on the phone." A mixed, but generally satisfactory day all round, despite Newcastle United's desperate performance against the vastly superior Tottenham Hotspur, which probably ushers the Magpies into the Championship and the way of Leeds United, Leicester City, Southampton, Norwich City and Charlton Athletic. Thanks, Mike.