Alarming

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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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