That’ll come in handy

My mother was a hoarder. The cupboards in her flat were full of objects she regarded as useful. ‘That’ll come in handy,‘ she would say. Bottles, jars, wrapping paper and string were all neatly stored away for one day in the future when they would be put into service. I can see her now, laboriously unpicking the knots in string, chuckling with satisfaction as she rolled it into a tidy ball and placed it in the biscuit tin . ‘That’ll come in handy.’

The habit lingered until her death in the summer of 2003. I had the mammoth task of clearing out her belongings from the council flat in Weston Super Mare. Nearly two skips were filled with That’ll come in handy stuff. I remember hesitating over a square biscuit tin. The lid was jammed tight but I didn’t need to open it. Shaking the tin confirmed my memory of an assortment of ribbons and balls of string. Absent mindedly I put it in the boot of my car thinking – That’ll come in handy.

Sometime later,  whilst having a clear-out I stumbled upon the dust covered biscuit tin in the attic, I realised this Come in handy tin hadn’t been called upon to give service during the seven years since my mother’s departure. The lid wouldn’t budge, without further thought I dropped it into the dustbin.

During the summer of 2011 we were cursed with the problem of cats’ mess on the front lawn. All the other houses in our street had concreted over their lawns to create parking space. We tried all sorts of pellets and gadgets to deter the cats with negligible success. The cat fraternity had decided to adopt our lawn as a permanent relief facility. Then, Babs my wife suggested a good idea.
‘Why don’t you cover the lawn with netting – cats don’t like that. Or, as an alternative I have some strong green twine you could peg down on the grass in criss- cross fashion until the cats find somewhere else to do their business.’

‘And how am I supposed to mow the lawn?’ I asked.

‘No problem, it’s so strong you could roll it up again to use another time.’ This certainly could do the trick and I decided to give it a go. As I stood back admiring my handiwork I realised the green twine was almost invisible against the grass. 

The following morning we were aroused from our beds by a loud crashing noise followed by an outburst of swearing. I looked out of the window to see the postman spread-eagled over our lawn. I called out.

‘Are you alright?’

‘No- I effing ain’t–what the blankety blank is all this string for?’ He was usually a happy sort of bloke dashing hither and thither on his rounds with a permanent smile and always managed a cheerful greeting.
‘Morning, nice day eh ?’

I’d never seen the swift footed postman looking so angry and he showed no interest in my explanation as to the purpose of the string, 
‘You stupid idiot -I could have broken my leg’ he shouted as he gingerly gathered his scattered post. ‘It didn’t ought to be allowed.’ 

I hadn’t been called a stupid idiot since leaving school nearly 70 years ago when the music teacher gave me a ticking off for whacking Jevens over the head with my clarinet. That was the end of my musical career!

I didn’t feel the slur on my character and his bolshie attitude could go unchallenged. He was accustomed to taking a short cut across our lawn to deliver next doors post , terminating with a surefooted leap across the rockery. There was a distinct furrow in the ground to show for his ten years of service with the Post Office. He may of been a good substitute for a dodgy broadband connection but I wasn’t prepared to take that sort of abuse. I leaned out of the window with the intention of giving him a mouthful. ‘You are trespassing on my lawn you prat, why don’t you use the path like everyone else! ‘

The words were never spoken when noticing two girls across the road on their way to school. They were giggling and pointing towards my trouserless figure. I took a step back and closed the window sensing it wasn’t a good idea to be arguing so early in the morning. I prefer to leave bad mouthing sessions towards the end of the day and not have my feelings simmering for long periods. Not only that, a Postman has powers to make life very miserable. He can shove your mail into one of those dog pooh boxes, put it through a shredding machine, even put a match to it and burn your house down. No, it’s not a good idea to upset the postman.
Whilst replacing the string I asked my wife, ‘ How came you by this usefull ball of string?’

‘Ah yes,’ she replied, ‘I found it in our dustbin sometime back. It was in a beautiful antique biscuit tin containing silk picture cards, ribbons and string. The things people throw away, it must be worth a few pounds! They can use our dustbin any time.’

Hmm… we haven’t been bothered with cat pooh since, and the Postman always uses the path now. That string came in really handy. ’Thanks! Mum.