As I trudged to the station through a relentless downpour, shielded by a cheap umbrella already failing on one side, my head was bowed against the weather. I barely noticed the young man approaching, his arms laden with three bottles of white wine, until he blocked my path. "D'ya wanna buy one?" he asked, thrusting a bottle toward me. It was clear he had just shoplifted them, or so I assumed cynically, given his desperation to offload the goods to a stranger in such miserable conditions.
"No thank you," I replied, yet I couldn't shake the feeling of being singled out. The pavement was bustling, but he had chosen me. I pictured him dashing from the store, wondering why he stole white wine and how to sell it on a wet Wednesday morning. In that moment, he must have seen me as a likely buyer. Ironically, even as I declined, I found myself eyeing the label, curious if it was to my taste. We both made unflattering assumptions that day—mine about his theft, his perhaps based on my flimsy umbrella.
Garden Repair Turns into a Catastrophe
Returning home later, the rain had ceased, but a daunting task awaited. The ivy on our garden wall had destroyed the trellis, and I needed to clear the greenery and replace three sections. I had purchased the materials weeks ago, but constant rain delayed the work. With more showers forecasted, this was my only chance.
The ivy was thick and tangled, woven with tough creepers, thorny rose suckers, and remnants of old trellis. I alternated between a hedge trimmer, branch cutter, and saw, hacking away chunks and piling them behind me. After clearing a two-meter stretch, I secured new posts and attached one trellis section, feeling a brief sense of accomplishment.
An Unintended Gate Emerges
However, the remaining ivy clung stubbornly. For an hour, I sawed and pulled until, with a sudden crash, the entire mass gave way, taking half the wall with it. Bricks tumbled into the garden bed, crushing plants below. In my attempt to repair the barrier between our garden and the alley, I had inadvertently created a jagged gap—a makeshift gate.
My wife peered out from the kitchen window. "Is it going to stay like that?" she asked. "For now," I admitted, unsure how to fix it. Passersby on the other side stopped to stare through the new opening. She suggested Mark, our builder, could handle it when he came to repair the pergola next week. Mark is the professional my wife hires to undo the damage from my DIY efforts, a presence I appreciate but that highlights my incompetence.
"Yeah," I muttered. "In the meantime," she added. "I'll sort it," I promised, though with little confidence.
A Temporary Fix Under the Rain
As darkness fell and rain resumed, I ventured back out to gather the fallen bricks. Carefully, I stacked them to mimic the wall's original pattern, then propped a trellis section on top, screwing it to a post on one side and jamming the other into a leafy thicket. My wife observed, "That looks fine." I replied, "You can't tell it's all just balanced there, that the slightest breeze would push it over." She sighed, "It'll do for now." "That's my motto," I said with a wry smile.
Hood up, I walked to the nearest shop, the rain slanting beneath streetlights. I wondered if my makeshift repair would survive the night. Inside, I decided to project an image of sophistication, selecting a bottle of white wine with a plastic anti-theft collar—a mark of quality. At the till, the clerk removed the collar and scanned the bottle. As I tapped my card to pay, I thought silently: I know where you can get a whole umbrella for that price.
