Mrs Duck Week: Manky II

I am my own worst critic.

No. That is untrue. Mrs Duck is my worst critic.

Up until very recently, she had never read my blog, recognising it as a piece of personal territory, where girls, as a rule, fear to tread. And then she got hold of my book the other week. Woe.

She read it in silence. Put the book down and turned to me.

"So," she said, "So. Did you really take a shit in the shed?"

"Ummm… you do recognise there's a certain artistic licence throughout the book", I replied, opening with my standard defence.

"You did, didn't you? You manky git."

"Errr… might have done."

"And what, pray, did you do with the bag?"

"mumblemumble dunno mumble"

"You put it in the bin didn't you?"

"mumble"

"You manky, manky git."

Nothing gets past Mrs Duck. Nothing. Not even that business with the brassieres.

The shed, as scene of the crime, has to go. Despite my protests that a man's shed is his castle ("Yeah, but castles normally have toilets"), it is to be replaced by a greenhouse.

Luckily for me, I've still got a spare shed, while Mrs Duck can revel in her victory over the Forces of Mank.

"Ha!" she says, "Ha! Just you try doneing a poo in the greenhouse, matey. You'll be spotted."

And she'd be right. But then, I care not, for I shall be as happy as Larry planting tomatoes.

Oh yes. Planting tomatoes. Well mulched. In their own, steaming fresh manure. And there will be a small corner of an English greenhouse that will be forever manky.