everywhere. In my hair. Jumper. Eyes. So much for being clever. Last time I got covered, wind had blown it all back at me, as if the Pigeons from The Park (PFTP) had decided those tiny particles hurled their way were beak-fulls short of a coconut. One collective sneeze and I was clearing up for days.
This time, I thought, I’ll position myself correctly. No wind. I was precise, gentle of movement and, on my last fling, took a smugly triumphant half-step backwards adding an audacious slight twist. Came nose to wire with bird feeder on washing line. Several times. Ricochet is glorious, eh? PFTP love that kind of thing.
