A Pear - Shaped Tale

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I suppose it would be about thirty-five years ago that we bought a rather dilapidated Victorian detached villa from a Mrs Brown and moved in. Our closest neighbours (we'll call them Mr and Mrs Blank) were rather upper-crust. Mrs Lisbet Blank, a Dane by birth, soon told my wife over the fence that she had royal blood and was in fact a Danish princess; also that her husband, Sidney, was a retired British Ambassador. He was a pleasant, retiring and unassuming sort of chap; we only discovered after his death through a press obituary that he had been knighted.

One of my first tasks had been to erect clothes posts and line and, like our mothers before us, my wife soon put her first batch of washing out to dry. When she went later to feel it, Lisbet Blank's face appeared over the fence; she must have been waiting for my wife. 'Hm ... Good morning, Mrs Baynes, er ... Mrs Brown never put her washing out to dry, you know!' Betty, my wife, had always been proud of her lovely white washing and found its display nothing to be ashamed of.

Lisbet liked her gin and the boxes of empty bottles regularly appeared outside her gate for the dustmen to collect. That Christmas we invited the couple round for pre-lunchtime drinks. I think our princess has been imbibing somewhat already, because after a couple of glasses of sherry she became loquacious. After letting her having what he considered to be enough rope, mild Sidney told her, 'Perhaps we’d better go back now. We don't want you to
have a sore throat, do we, my dear?'

We had about a third of an acre and in the back garden, not far from our neighbours' fence, was a large old pear tree. When its delicious fruit was ripe, I was faced with the problem of harvesting the half of the crop that was hanging over the Blanks' garden. However, I knew Lisbet left for her weekly hairdo every Thursday (as she had upset our three local hairdressers, she was having to go ever further afield), so after she departed for her next session, I made hay while the sun shone and fetched my ladder.

Now we come to the awkward bit. Firstly, my wife happened to be out at the same time, so I was alone. Secondly, my left leg has been amputated above the knee and my artificial leg hangs on by suction, without straps. Taking my basket, I mounted the ladder and stepped out along the main branch over the Blanks' garden. I picked the pears on my right, but when I turned round to pick those on the left, there was no room for my left foot on the branch, so I had to stand on one leg for a spell. Half a minute or so later, my suction went. The aluminium leg disappeared down its trouser leg and into Mrs B's garden. In trying to grab it I also dropped the basket, pears and all. So there was little me, stranded out on the branch — up the creek without a paddle, as they say.

It was of no use my calling out for help that I knew was not there. Whatever would the old battle-axe say when she caught me red-handed as I meekly asked, 'May I please have my leg back?' Half an hour later I was beginning to wonder how much longer I could hang on up there, standing on one leg.

The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, however. Lisbet arrived home shortly before my wife, whom I sent next door to plead on my behalf, expecting fireworks. Instead, the lady of royal blood could not have been nicer, handing back pears and leg with a smile.

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Len Baynes

09.03.06 Front Page

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