About six years ago, my husband and I bought ourselves a lovely little cottage in the English countryside. We tackled all the renovations ourselves, tamed the overgrown plot, and made a proper habit of escaping there every weekendor at least every other, weather permitting.
Admittedly, we never set out to win any prizes at the county vegetable show, but we did plant a modest patch: cucumbers, tomatoes, a few herbs, onions, courgettes, and peppers. Just enough to feel accomplished, but not enough to bring on a nervous breakdown.
The garden came with a riot of raspberry canes, a tangly mix of blackcurrant and redcurrant bushes, and enough strawberry runners to keep us and every blackbird on the lane well entertained. Quite often, Id pop into the office with a punnet or two for my colleagues. Safe to say, everyone was delightedmurmurs of absolutely scrumptious abounded.
This year, a woman named Abigail was transferred to our office from another branch. She seemed perfectly pleasant and thoroughly polite. That particular week, Id brought along a box of strawberries. Naturally, I offered her some.
Abigail polished them off and positively raved about how delicious they were. Next thing I knew, she was peppering me with questions about the cottage, the garden, the lot. Chuffed to bits with her enthusiasm, I happily told her all about it.
A few days passed, and then Abigail stopped by my desk with what one could only describe as *great expectations.* She asked if I might lend her the keys to our cottage, as her daughter apparently fancied a country getaway with her own children for a couple of weeks. After all, Abigail reasoned, the kids could do with some fresh air, and youre not using it this week anyway. My daughters on maternity leave and really needs a break from city life.
I politely declinedwhat else could I do? Abigail looked rather put out, but left it at that.
Fast forward a fortnight, and one of Abigails colleagues, a woman named Fiona, approached me, asking for directions to our cottage. Understandably alarmed, I asked why.
She cheerfully explained that Abigail had invited herand several other colleagues, apparentlyto a birthday do at *our* cottage, but theyd been told theyd have to find their own way there.
To say I was gobsmacked would be putting it mildly.
I confronted Abigail in the kitchen, who, with a beatific smile, proclaimed, Oh, its no trouble at all to celebrate my birthday at your place, is it? Just a daynobodys actually moving in. You dont mind, do you?
Actually, yes, I do mindespecially about the hours of graft Ive put into that lawn, those flowerbeds, my shrubs, and, well, my home. Not to mention, I hadnt even been invitednor had she bothered to ask permission.
I declined, again. Cue another huff, another injured pout.
But so be it. Frankly, Ive happily shared my fruit with colleagues for years, but none of them have ever been quite so staggeringly cheeky as Abigail.
