I knew that look on my brother Mick’s face as we sat on the hillock in our tropical garden overlooking ‘The Club’, its swimming-pool, tennis courts and the hotel’s henhouses - but no grapefruit trees.
Weeks later, crack of dawn – BANG-BANG-BANG and an uproar of angry hens. Grapefruits in the pool, on the courts and the henhouse’s metal roofs. Investigation proved inconclusive.
Bang-bang-bang two weeks later, and again and again… Then I found it. A superb tractor-tyre catapult. My silence kept me in chocolate for the rest of my childhood and a grown-up single malt every Christmas since. Sorry hens.
Weeks later, crack of dawn – BANG-BANG-BANG and an uproar of angry hens. Grapefruits in the pool, on the courts and the henhouse’s metal roofs. Investigation proved inconclusive.
Bang-bang-bang two weeks later, and again and again… Then I found it. A superb tractor-tyre catapult. My silence kept me in chocolate for the rest of my childhood and a grown-up single malt every Christmas since. Sorry hens.
