With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed

With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed by Lynne Truss Read Free Book Online

Book: With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed by Lynne Truss Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Truss
commanding that Lester sprang back and gave him a look. Tim stirred in his chair, but Lester was right not to race to the kitchen, for it was a false alarm. Tim reached for his pad again. BE MORE PATIENT WITH LESTER , he wrote, and, at a loss where to put it, stuck it on the cat.

    Makepeace sat at his typewriter, not watching the TV, and composed the covering letter for his
Come Into the Garden
book review, every word of which was an obvious lie to anyone who knew him.
    Dear Tim [
he wrote; actually this part not a lie exactly, but read on
], Sorry [
not at all
] you did not receive this by fax on Thursday as requested, but as I explained on the phone I faxed it from the copy shop
[no, he didn’t]
and then lost my original while gardening [
stretching it a bit here, but there you are
]. So I have retyped this from notes [
yawn
] and hope you like it. I actually think it came out better the second time! [
clever touch this, the maestro at work, as it were
].
    Funny, I agree, that we didn’t bump into one another at the launch of the Fruit Garden books last week [
he wasn’t there
]. I was definitely there [
see previous note
]! In fact, I looked high and low for you, but couldn’t see you [
classic turning of tables; never fails to convince
].
    All the best,
M. Makepeace

    Miles eastward along the river, past Greenwich Reach and the Isle of Dogs, Lillian was sitting with her feet up watching
Forgive Us Our Trespasses,
just like everybody else. From the steamy kitchen she could hear the pleasant sounds of George (the hubby) making dinner, and she looked up in proper feeble-invalid fashion to see him present her with a pre-prandial cup-soup, made especially in her favourite Bunnykins mug. Some people might balk at the idea of cup-soups forming any part of an evening meal, but somehow it had become part of the routine. The idea was that, with God’s help of course, it would keep up Lillian’s strength until the arrival of solid food.
    ‘Dwarling,’ he said in a singsong baby voice. (I’m sorry if this is ghastly, but it’s true.) Lillian looked up, saw the cup-soup, pretended it was all a big surprise and gave him a sweet, affected, little-girl look that was enough honestly to freeze the blood of any disinterested onlooker. She peered into the bunny-mug and frowned a deep frown.
    ‘No cru-tongs, bunny,’ she lisped, her mouth turned down in disappointment.
    ‘Poor bunny,’ agreed her husband (who by day, incidentally, was a used-car salesman). ‘No cru-tongs for bunnywunny.’
    He hung his head, extended his arms behind his back and kicked his instep.
    Fortunately, she smiled her forgiveness, and the moment of conflict passed. Otherwise there might have been a tantrum. But tonight they made secret-society gestures with their little fingers, as proof that the no-crutong incident had been forgotten. Don’t ask. They just seemed to enjoy it, that’s all.
    ‘Bunny tired?’ asked Mister Bunny, after a pause.
    ‘Bunny
werry
tired.’
    ‘Did the phone never stop ringing again?’
    ‘Never.’ Lillian pouted and delicately picked some fluff off her teddy-slippers, real tears of childish anguish starting in her eyes.
    ‘Phone went ring ring ring ring ring ring –’
    ‘Poor bunny, with phone going ring.’
    ‘Yes, poor bunny.’
    ‘Nice spinach for tea, make bunny stwong.’
    ‘Bunny
never
be stwong, bunny.’
    ‘I know,’ said Mister Bunny, with a tinge of heart-felt regret. ‘Poor poor bunny-wunny.’
    ‘Mmm,’ said Lillian, closing her eyes.

    Osborne was trying to make notes for his interview on Tuesday, but somehow the usual all-purpose questions about sheds looked rather hollow and unsatisfactory: ‘Old shed/new shed? Shed important/unimportant? Hose kept in shed? Or not? (Any funny hose anecdotes?)’
    He looked at the TV screen and there she was again, thisamazing blonde woman with the mystery and the scarifying attitude.
    ‘Singles or double?’ asked a hotel receptionist.
    ‘Double,’ said

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