Green Plastic Watering Can

On Saturday night I sat outside in my metre square garden, on the warm dry soil, leaking the summer’s heat’s sweet fragrance of weed flowers, fresh June leaves and feline poo.

Above, hanging from a tree a fake, tiny Chinese hot air balloon, carrying a broken man, fixed with a rubber band, swung like the real thing.

It wore me out.

I went out there for broken crumbled reasons.

I heard a noise – like a cat crossed with the grunts of a goblin, up to no good, running a mock, maybe dancing with a cold and a smoker’s cough.

It probably was a cat because I know the cat. Sometimes he is there, during the day, looking in the window, demanding to be let in.

It is his garden. He owns it. It is a good garden with many hiding places, vantage points and crapping stations and he is keeping it clear of rats and other cats and as one of his humans he expects payment – in fish or whatever…

“Just let me in bitch - before I give you a slap! You eye balling me boy?! See these claws? They will rip those fuckers right out!” he says mostly.

So I went outside to see my pimp, maybe give him a stroke and little tickle on the belly - see if we couldn’t sort things out. Or maybe it was a goblin and I had to see that.

But neither were there.

Only a green plastic watering can.