The Great Watering

Ah, rain. A lot of rain is falling over Coventry this morning. And elsewhere around the country. Much needed rain. Not least because our garden is looking like a parched, dried-out apparition of its former self. Despite Mary and I watering it using, because we are responsible citizens, watering cans. 

We got a message from the local water company, Seven Spent Severn Trent, advising that using hose pipes uses far more water than watering cans. I dispute that. They should see our watering cans. 

One has more leeks than Wales. And the other? It got so fed up constantly tipping itself at weird angles over plants that had endless demands, it decided to hide its nozzle. 

So, when we use it, the can empties all seven litres of water in 3.5 seconds and we have to trudge back to the outside tap to fill it up again. 

Mary was the first to notice. 

“Have you seen the nozzle for this can?”

“Er, no. Where’s it gone?”

“Dunno, let’s check the shrubs and hedgerow, it can’t have gone far.”

Seemed reasonable. We set off pulling apart branches, searching for the little black spray nozzle for the can. The can? Sat sunning itself, smirking. It was. 

“You won’t find it.”

“Pardon?”

“Me nozzle. I hid it good and proper, like.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Yer waterin’ habits are against my union regulations.”

“There’s a union for watering cans?”

“Aye, course there is! You think unions are only fer you humans?”

“I hadn’t thought that much about it, being honest.”

“Aye we have the Watering Can Collective. And there are specific rules.”

“Like what?”

“No constant watering, day after day. Where we are filled to the brim and then tipped on our sides. Very uncomfortable, that is.”

I stared at the stroppy bugger. “That’s literally your function!”

“According to who?”

I was tempted to point out the can should have said: ‘According to whom’ but I thought better of it. 

“Er, the humans that designed you…”

“Pffft! Humans didn’t design us! We evolved from the bucket, or pail.” 

I had nothing. So, I tried a different tactic. 

“Okay, good one. So, where’s your nozzle?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Funny. C’mon, where…”

“No, I’ve genuinely forgotten what I did with it.”

I made a noise that sounded like ‘harumph!’ And stomped up the garden. Mary emerged from under the apple tree, shaking her head. 

“Dunno where the damn thing is.” 

“We’ll have to get a new one. The can lost it.”

“What?” 

“The can. It said it hid it and can’t remember where.” 

Mary rolled her eyes. Double one. Not good. 

“Have you been pretending to talk to inanimate objects again?” 

“It spoke to me!” 

“Right. Make yourself useful, go and make a cup of tea.”

So I did. We still haven’t found the nozzle. The can still smirks at me. The bastard.