Way-aye, Roscoe here again.
Mam’s been picking grass for us most days. Biggles has got so used to it that he gives out a big wheek when it’s the right sort of time. Mam comes along and asks us what’s wrong, and we all wheek at her and she realises. She’s good like that.
She’s been going into the garden and picking grass for us. There are different types, we can tell. There’s thick, lush grass which sounds like it’s from the wet and sunny part at the bottom. We haven’t been down there yet. Mam says there are buttercups and daisies and she doesnt think we can go down, but we’d be her easiest way of keeping the grass under control. We don’t eat daisies and buttercups, Mam, they’re bad for us. Just send us down there and we’ll do the job.
Then there’s some thinner grass which I reckon has been growing in the shade. That’s probably from the side of the bank going down the little hill. It’s very tasty, and is the one most likely to have dandelions in it.
Then there’s a little smidgin of our new grass, whch Mam gave us yesterday. It’s short and tough at the moment, but I reckon when it settles in, it’ll be fine.
Mam says it might be warm enough for us to go out this week. She’s not supposed to walk on the new grass till after Easter, and that’s this coming weekend. But she reckons she could put down a mat and stand on that to put our runs out.
She’s clever, you know, our Mam. She works out ways to do things. She even managed to hook the washing machine up to everything yesterday. She spent the whole afternoon doing washing. The machine is still in the middle of the kitchen. She’s still thinking about it.
See what happens this week. Bertie will tell all next Monday. He gets all the fun jobs. He’s put together a group of our posts to tell the saga of our move from Norfolk to Hampshire. I wrote half of it, mind.
Bye for now
Roscoe xxxx
