We've 'ad a few days of good weather and 'er's been tripping down the garden. Er's been away a lot lately on account of The 'obbits and their new little Frodo, and meanwhile the weeds have been growing like they're on blooming steroids. Now 'er's 'home, 'er comes out in the sunshine, flitting about with 'a trowel in 'er 'and. Bless. About time, too. It's all very well, 'er going on about the lovely blue drifts of cornflowers, but I can't see over the top of 'em. Swamped, I am. Off she goes, exclaiming about 'er beautiful garden as if there were fairies at the bottom of it. It's nonsense, that. There's a compost 'eap at the bottom of the garden, and you never see a compost heap fairy these days. They all work for blooming John Innes.
Any fairies in this garden come to the rockery. Why, you ask? Why do they so love the rockery? Well, since you ask, there's nothing fairies like better than a chat, and though I say it as shouldn't I can do sparkling and witty conversation as well as the next grey stone gnome from Yorkshire. 'ad a most entertaining 'arf hour with the Cuckoo Spit Fairy and the Missing Tools Fairy today. But if anyone's seen the How To Do In Greenfly Without Using Chemicals Fairy, get 'er to give me a call, will yer?
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