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The fedge is looking good.

No, it’s no good, I still don’t like the word ‘Fedge’.

Anyway, the living willow fence down one side of the garden is looking good.

The man who digs the garden came round last night and we talked about…well non sense really.

I have known the man who digs the garden for thirty years now.
He is a dangerous person to know.
It is a little like being friends with a huge tomcat.
He comes around, makes himself at home, eats everything and leaves a trail of mild destruction behind him.
The place now smells of old cigarettes, the sea and earth.

The man who digs the garden pretty much only works in gardens or he surfs.

There does not seem to be any middle ground except when he is here with tins of beer.
Then we talk about rubbish and watch dreadful films.

Usually he is up and gone by six am but today he was still in the house when I got up.

I cooked pancakes for the man who digs the garden and the Proles.
Prole1 was talking about the trouble in the Crimea and discussing potential solutions.

Prole2 was counting pancakes and making sure they went to the right plates in the right order.

After breakfast the man who digs the garden took Prole2 out in the garden to do some digging.

While the man who digs the garden moved the honey suckle and black berry plants around Prole2 helped him.

Prole2: What are you doing?

The man who digs the garden: Digging.

Prole2: What?

The man who digs the garden: Digging.

Prole2: What?

The man who digs the garden: Digging.

Prole2: Digging what?

The man who digs the garden stood up slowly and stared at Prole2.

The man who digs the garden: The ground. I am digging the ground.

Prole2 looked in the hole.

Prole2: Oh.

I went and made a cup of tea since they seemed to be getting on so well.

Prole1 was staring at the map on the wall.

When I came back Prole2 had a spoon and was shovelling pellets out of an old coffee jar.

Me: What are you doing?

Prole2: I am putting chicken poop on the plants. Plants love chicken poop. You can’t put too much chicken poop on the plants. One spoonful of chicken poop is enough. I have the spoon so I don’t have to touch the chicken poop. The chicken poop looks like cereal but you don’t eat it because it is chicken poop. Chicken poop does not look like this when is comes out of the chicken. Chicken poop is more of a splat. This chicken poop has been turned into…into…what are they?

The man who digs the garden: Pellets.

Prole2: Pellets. Chicken poop pellets.

Me: What is you favourite word?

Prole2: Poop.

Me: I see, is it a good job then?

Prole2: Yep, yep, yep.

He hopped away flicking his chicken poop pellets around.

We moved plants and re-planted them in the fedge.

Stupid word, fedge.

I went back into the kitchen where Prole1 was sitting staring at the map on the wall.

Proe1: Do you think the Ukraine should join Russia or turn into two separate countries?

Prole2: I have been throwing chicken poop around.

Prole1: Cool.

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