Mending Fences – or how many cliches can you count
Even if they are not your own, they have to be done.
Next door rent their house, but even before they left for pastures new, there was a polite slightly uneasy conversation that was never had about the fence.
It is theirs.
When they had work done on the house they mended the first two panels because they had to move them to allow workmen access.
About which we spoke freely.
But now after being buffeted by the remnants of storm Bertha or Abigail, I’m not quite sure as to who it was but she was very argumentative, the fence gave up the ghost and collapsed.
The very foundations were rotten. Not just in one or two places, but along the whole run of the garden.
No doubt our old neighbours will eventually turn up and a polite conversation will ensue and a compromise will be reached. I will keep out of it. I will imagine too much suppressed anger. I am good at keeping a lid on things, bottling things up, trying to diffuse the situation, taking the least path of resistance, taking the blame if it helps, pouring oil on troubled waters and smoothing ruffled feathers.
The problem occurs these days when I realise that it is not my fault or their fault. Or that no one is around to, or is going to, or recognises any need to, apologise.
Or they may shoot to kill, or bomb the hell out of someone.
How do you mend fences then?