Last weekend a
friend of mine did some tree chopping. Let’s call her Jenny. She’s a few years
older than me.
We’ll first flash
back to before Christmas to where the tree felling was held up somewhat by her
falling off the ladder. Jenny’s feet were about 8” up the ladder. (That’s about
ceiling height in most modern homes!).
Luckily
Jenny fell flat on her back, managing to prevent the ladder and tools from
falling upon her and avoiding falling in the garden waste bag. After a week in
hospital plus some months recovery time, the story jumps to the present.
The debris is now a size that could be cut with loppers and put in the garden waste bag. The bag
is a large hessian arrangement on a metal frame - about waist height. However, it was filling to fast so Jenny
decided to climb into the bag and jump up and down to compact the clippings. Well,
one does, doesn't one? Apart from anything, it's fun!
Jenny was
jumping with such enthusiasm that the bag toppled down the slight grassy slope,
ejecting her. With a final flourish, the bag pushed her down a wee drop onto the concrete,
breaking her new glasses and badly grazing her arm. When I saw her, she was sporting several bits
of sticking plaster and a real beaut shiner.
When out walking, women looked at her with understanding and
sympathy while men looked embarrassed and looked away. Such is the frequency of
domestic violence in our genteel society. (or so the news media would have us
believe anyway).
That’s a
thing with aging. The mind is
still young and vigorous but alas, the body isn't on the same page.
