Don't ask a policeman

  

We have just moved into a new house. The old house was comfortable, but on a rowdy street – the main thoroughfare to three pubs. The house also had a very small front garden which gave passers-by the seemingly irresistible urge to gawp in at us when we were trying to relax on the sofa. A gesture, or hard stare, from Maude usually shamed them into looking away and scuttling off.

The new house is up an acute drive in a sleepy neighbourhood. When we viewed the place, we believed the vendor’s patter on account of him being a policeman – a tall policeman, who looks you right in the eye as he tells you things. He was/is a police dog-handler and boasted at one point that one of his dogs had just hospitalised a burglar – in retrospect this should have alarmed us a little.

I am a traditionalist and used to trust and believe policemen – but not any more. We moved in to discover doors falling off, dodgy taps (B & Q) and no TV aerial. Details a vendor should really apprise a buyer of.

Plod also had a fishpond, which he had assured us he would fill in before moving. He didn’t bother – he just drained it and left various items of fishpond paraphernalia littering the garden. Perhaps he thought I was just kidding and secretly wanted to join his fraternity of pond-lovers. Thankfully the terriers have enough wit to avoid the abyss, but I do fear for the safety of the others. I took Maude to the edge and pointed out the dangers. There is talk of a gathering to bring in the New Year. Archie’s expected, so perhaps chicken wire would be a good idea.