Gushing Hose

A small pile of waste paper is arranged at the right side of the table. I deliberately placed it there in preparation for me to fetch it up, exit at the sliding glass door, turn left beneath a modest verandah, head left again through a garden gate, walk down a short section of concrete driveway and deposit the paper in a large, yellow recycling bin. But I have yet to do this. Instead, in the gathering darkness, I dragged a hose down past the bins to water the new plants in the front garden. In the midst of this, the watering attachment popped off the hose, leaving a gushing naked tip. The concrete became wet as I pulled the running hose back to its proper place at the rear left hand corner of the house. The pile of paper remained utterly unaffected by any of these goings on. Even now as a cold breeze blows in at the glass door, it retains its composure. I can only regard it with awe. I can only wish I had similar tenacity.

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