On summer evenings, I like to sit in the garden and watch the fairies play over my prize azaleas.
I say ‘play’… what I mean is they’ve got a bitter territorial dispute going back generations, and every night they come out to drench the flowerbed in pixie blood.
Last summer, they tried to broker a peace. Asked me to mediate. I was flattered, but it wasn’t right for me to get involved in their affairs.
Talks broke down, and I felt a bit guilty digging in the wreckage the next morning.
Not too guilty, though. Those azaleas don’t fertilise themselves.
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Morbid, black, macarbre….
Right up my strasse…
However, the words ‘fairy dust’ won’t hold quite the same connotations for me now.
I wonder if my local garden centre sell pixie blood and bone meal in handy sized bags? That would be convenient.