Brown Balls

The sky was a blinding blue this morning and every sound was magnified.  I found myself humming non, je ne regrette rien...which is always a dead giveaway. I blame Marg and Keir for the racket we all made last night.  And the shiraz, I blame the shiraz too.

It all started the previous night discussing how cold it had been and how we bought those hot water bottles, you know, the ones with the pink balls? Those pink balls have taken on a life of their own.  They have been on the cupboards, on a male model, on a bird of paradise and who knows where else.

We even found them on the TV aerial this morning.

So, imagine this scene last night: David in the kitchen cooking Moroccan lamb, Marg and Keir over, having a drink, and I reach up to the cupboard where we keep the music CD's, only to be confronted by THIS!

My soused befuddled brain tried to make sense of the sight, where had those rotten little pink balls been this time? How had they become brown? Had they been dunked in the coffee? Washed with the black socks? Did they get out into a mud puddle? David!  Look at this! At this point, both Marg and Keir began to fall about laughing hysterically. Turns out this was an elaborate practical joke, the brown balls (off their hot water bottle) had been planted THE PREVIOUS NIGHT and ever since, we had failed to see them.  For over 24 hours, in this tiny caravan, we had both been looking straight past them.  Powers of observation? Epic Fail!

Of course, the cackling and spluttering and chortling and giggling went on too loudly and far too long, which is why I found myself guiltily humming the no-regrets song when I spotted our unfortunate caravan neighbours this morning.  They wanted to know why we had the scrabble board out drying in the sun.  I explained about the wine being spilt all over it last night.  Ah, they said. Last night. I slunk away.

There will have to be Retribution, of course. A pay-back by Silver Fox. When they least expect it.  Marg and Keir have got us in trouble before, mind you. There was the time Keir suggested we all have a dinner party dressed only in newspapers.  The children took years to get over that one.