Swinging from a hosepipe

A honey of a reader emails me a splendid long and helpful letter ref my mewling Gardennuie post.

Full of positive vibes and practical advice, to the effect that, no sooner do I hightail it out of London than I'm talking about hoisting myself with my own hosepipe from the nearest tree.

Like any sensible person, she's not sure how to respond on site but is concerned enough to email and urges me not to despair.

Honestly, that's the sort of thing to bring a tear to my eye and a loosening of the knot.

Actually, I think she's thinking about this whiney post, wherein I don't actually mention a hose but what a deuced good idea. There are miles of them lying around, tucked into the undergrowth or just hanging around just waiting for some idiot to casually toss a length over his shoulder, accidentally have it loop over a stout branch and the other end ensnare his neck, a stumble over a well-placed cone - and 'tis done.

Oh, but Honey of a Reader's mail has saved me from all this.

Even more likely, I simply trip over a camouflaged length and go pitching down the hillide, busting neck on some convenient boulder. I'm sure the hound Sam can be relied on to nudge me in the right direction.

Just kidding.

How could I quit this mortal coil just before summer kicks in and all those luverly tourists will be walking around in the oh-so tasteful and ethnic T-shirts we now produce to adorn our shapely guests for taking home as reminder of their educational visits to this island of history and beauty.

The top garment refers to the wearer as a qualified "m*** diver" and the one beneath it with the fat lady having some anatomically impossible horridness done on her is worse.

Years back when I saw my very first T-shirt sporting an obscenity, it was in town and was even attracting the attention of the locals.

I and some pals swore that if they ever came out to our part of the island - Gouvia, Kondokoli, Ipsos - we'd organise a posse of muscular Taste Police and tear them from where they hung and cast them into some muddy sewer.

Of course, by next year they were everywhere and the more pressing cause was the rise of muddy sewers dumping far more tasteless ordure than mere clothing into the azure Ionian.

Cain't win, but I can unknot that hose and carry the fight on a few more days.

Thanks, EW. Life-saver.