Much

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. We need to 'ave a word about the coffee.

I don't mind 'ow much 'er sloshes down 'er throat. If 'er wants to drink the stuff until sparks come out of 'er ears and 'er looks like a shocked owl, that's 'er problem. But 'er's started feeding it to the garden.

LYS started it, bringing 'er some used coffee grounds from one of them coffee shops. 'Er looked it up on the compertooter and found out that you put 'em on yer azaleas and roses and whatnots. Fair enough. But 'er is now on the coffee rota on Sunday mornings, and this ain't no instant, oh, no, not where 'er goes to church. They get their coffee fresh, fairtrade and fancy. Once a month, when 'er's on coffee duty, 'ome she comes with a wet soggy bag of used up coffee grounds and chucks 'em around the garden like Lady Blooming Bountiful.

Let me tell you, it ain't just the flowers that like 'em. Everything likes 'em. The blooming sparrers never go to sleep. Them blackbirds and thrushes are up all night chatting on about how to save the world. The earthworms are 'aving parties. And there's me snail. Snail and I 'ave been living a quiet life for more years than I care to remember, patrolling our garden steadily, an inch or two at a time, and an inch or two is enough for me, thank you. He's got reins, but I ain't never had to pull on 'em. Not until he got hold of the coffee, and 'e was off like the Grand Prix and 'alfway up the apple tree before I remembered the word to make him stop.

'Er's always saying 'er drinks 'er coffee strong enough to 'yperactivate a sloth. Well, it's all very well for 'er, but if you see 'er, tell 'er it ain't good for the rest of us. And for the sake of keeping order in the garden, tell 'er before the 'edge'ogs wake up.

Me snail 'asn't topped twitching.