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Dear Clare

It’s coming up to that time of year again when you get special deals on pencil-cases, and ASDA offer £25 school uniforms.

Mums sit at home and sow on name-tapes whilst little Johnny rubs dubbin into his rugger boots. The conkers split their green wombs, and the days begin to shorten noticeably. All that’s left of the holidays are abandoned cricket balls rotting gently in the long grass, and the weak sunlight blossoms ever more weakly in the dark and silent rooms where the cries of long-departed children echo in the memory.

But the little fuckers always cut across my lawn on the way to school. What shall I do?

Briget

Stockbridge, Edinburgh

 

 

Dear Briget

Oh how tough it is, averting tear-filled eyes, torn inexpressibly between pride and sorrow. Looking out from cobwebbed windows and, with unseeing eye, watching the bleached bones of children-grown-old, hearing bugle calls over parched desert forts as those who once were young shrug off childish pursuits and venture forth from the hearth and home.

But the time of year also brings the opening of the shooting season, leaving the dapper young chaps at Holland and Holland with too little time to look closely at shotgun licenses. If the paper’s been properly soaked in tea, folded and refolded, and the edges blunted with a sharp knife, such counterfeit licenses can be printed out from the internet, and signatures forged without any trouble at all.

Avail yourself of a box of Ely 12-bore shells and a bag of nails. Using something of similar width to the cartridges – a candle will do, or the handle of a hammer – sink a series of holes two inches deep in your lawn.

Using the hammer, force the nails down through the bottom of these holes, head first, so a quarter inch of the pointed end sticks up into the hole. Now carefully place a shotgun shell on each nail, making sure that the percussion cap rests on the point of the nail.

Use any loam- or peat-based compost to back-fill the holes, making the cartridge a snug fit with the end poking a couple of millimetres above ground level.

When the happy laughter of reunited children is heard on your lawn, it can’t be long before you’re also lulled to sleep by the cries of bewildered young scamps crowding round the one of their number who’s foot is plastered all over his upper thigh.

Who’s my brave little soldier now, motherfucker?

Clare.

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