The Crone has an American friend who, upon settling herself in a Soho pub on one rainy day in London, wriggled about on her bar stool and remarked to the bar man ” Ooh–wet pants” He, of course, being British, thought she meant her undies rather than her trousers and looked suitably appalled.
Given the transatlantic readership of this blog, the Blarney Crone feels obliged to point out that the title of this post refers to her latest garden accessory, not another unpleasant bathroom incident or a wee accident while in business attire.
She knows it’s a middle-aged thing to remark upon, but really the Crone is unbelievably proud to boast her own soaking hose, albeit a hand me down from her neighbor Sawhorse Marilyn.
A soaking hose, it turns out, is blocked at one end and has small pinpricks all up and down its length. You attach a more virile hose to the active end and then watch as weak trickles of water sustain small shoots that would otherwise just give up and peter out. You leave it on for hours,watching it drip and dribble on your dry spots and pondering the parallels with life for those who have reached a certain age.