The Washing Line at Number Nine

Somebody at number nine had strung a washing line clean across the path this morning, low enough to catch a gull of my standing quite unawares. Shirts, a tablecloth, and what I can only describe as an alarming number of socks, all flapping about like they owned the place.

I want it known that I did not simply barge through. I studied the situation. There is a proper way to approach a washing line, and it involves patience, a good eye for gaps, and absolutely no flapping of one's own, which only makes matters worse. I chose the space between the tablecloth and a rather ambitious pair of long johns, and went through low and level, the way I was taught.

The tablecloth had other ideas and caught me across the goggles, which I shall not be discussing further.

Once through, I delivered the post to number nine as though nothing at all had happened, which is the mark of a professional. The woman at the door remarked that I looked a bit dishevelled. I informed her that dishevelled was simply how a working gull looked at half past nine on a Sunday, and left it at that.

The line is still there. I shall be watching it.