My flappy hands have been made worse by the fact that I decided to tackle an enormously overgrown hedge of climbing roses, honeysuckle and clematis, at the weekend. It had rained overnight so I sensibly, yet disappointingly, decided against the power tool (insert pouty face) and set about the overhang, plunging my hands into the stems that were threatening to pull my fence down, armed with a pair of secateurs. Simples, as the meercats say. Five hours, one brimming wheelie bin and six overflow sacks later, my arms looked like a map of the underground, my hair was full of twigs and my right hand had seized up. I rewarded myself with a hot bubble bath. As I sat back, ice cold glass of wine in hand, proudly examining my war wounds, I suddenly realised I had company. Sitting atop of my very own Islands in the Stream (go, Dolly!) was a baby caterpillar. Lord only knows how long it had nested in my bra. I once found a blue Smartie in there after a party. I don't even remember eating Smarties that day.
Animal lovers, fret not: A happy ever after ensued for the caterpillar. And I made a mental note to wear polo necks or scarves as wildlife filters when I tackle the rest of the garden. On second thoughts, I think I'll stick to the imaginary world. That way I get to decide who shares my bath water.