I am slowly surrounding several pounds of pasta. I have slightly over catered again…
Eventually he looks over the fence and catches my eye.
“Warawack” he declaims.
I drag myself, pasta bloated, upright and wobble over to have a look.
“Warawack”. And with a sad air he gesticulates towards the greensward that he has been bashing with the mower. It resembles a mountain pasture freshly mowed. Coarse grass tufts, level to be sure, but not the manicure that I am sure he would wish.
I make sympathy noises. Perhaps if he tackled it more frequently.
“Warawack”. He coils the flex of his mower and returns it to the shed. I turn back to the pasta mountain and wonder on the wisdom of a glass of full bodied red.
We communicate but, on reflection, I have no real idea what he actually said. No more than any time before.
I mean it could have been.
“I wish you could stop that cat of yours hopping over the fence and crapping all over the garden”
The cat peers guiltily out of the garage door.
