Alarming
The supermarket alarm went off. But the group of girls walked
through checkout as if nothing was happening. I was just in front and turned to
see what was going on. The young girls moved off chatting and laughing. I hate
it when the alarm goes as I aways feel guilty and that it is for me. We all
turned to look. Suddenly the assistant ran after them
“Hey! Stop!”
She ran and brought back a girl in a pink crop top and blue trousers;
her handbag was slung over her shoulders. Everyone was calm, except me, my
heart was pounding as I sat watching from the nearby chair.
The girl stood still, her friend came with her, but the rest
of the group disappeared. I expected the store detective to appear, the girl to
protest her innocence, her bag to be searched, but nothing happened. The alarm
was turned off and the two girls calmly walked away.
Could I have kept my cool in such a situation which we all
dread? The other day we got lost on an overgrown footpath and ended up in a
farmer’s yard. He called and gesticulated telling us to follow the footpath. I
shouted my apologies and found the gate with the footpath diversion sign
amongst the lush hedge greenery.
‘Path closed, by order,’ said the notice. Then another
notice underneath said -
‘Official diversion.’
I have not heard of diversions for footpaths but there have
been plenty around here for traffic recently. Lots of potholes have been filled
and we have warnings of roads to be closed and I try to remember the dates of
closure as we go past in the car. But I never
remember and inevitably later on I hit the diversion signs and have to wander
off down unknown roads looking for yellow guidance signs. Then comes the
dreaded ‘Diversion Ends’ sign and we are left to our own devices and sometimes
we do not know where we are. Thank goodness for sat navs.
Mr T is still working on our pond. We have been to a
reclamation yard to find some slate edging. There were old bricks, metal
piping, stones and slate pieces of all colours and sizes. Piles of stuff were
in different containers and bags forever growing like a metal and stone garden jarring
with the contrasting green fields and woodland.
Then I heard the alarm. It was from a little bird sitting at
the top of a wire guard fence. It had worms in its beak and was jigging up and
down and warning me. The wagtail had a nest in a scrap metal pipe nearby and this
time I hurried away.
(Taken from my column in the Shropshire Star)
A little wagtail nested in a reclamation yard
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