Yet another grand day in the country. I'm getting spoiled!
It began when a dumptruck (at my request, fear not) dumped an entire mountain of topsoil in the front yard. The builders had left it a wasteland, yet I have grand visions of a Ye Olde English cottage style garden. Hey, humor me.
So I went out there and began picking at Mount Topsoil with a shovel. And what should pull up to me but an SUV filled with yuppies.
Joy! Tourist season has begun!
"Hi, excuse me," said the blonde woman condescendingly, "We're trying to get back to Belfast..??" (Her husband leands over and interrupts, "uh... Bucksport?" he adds, mentioning a nearer town just in case I've never travelled more than 30 miles from home in my entire life.)
I tell them the easiest way to do it, and she shoots an angry glare at her husband. "Route 15 is the closest way," she repeats to him. She turns back to me. "Are you sure there's no faster way?" No, I assure her.
(I don't tell her the faster way because a) I hate her, b) it'd take too much of our valuable shoveling time, and c) now that I'm a local, I must always give inconvenient directions to out-of-towners. It's a law.)
She pissily accepts her fate, gives me a Queen Elizabeth wave, and off they go. And I return to my mountain of beautiful dark topsoil, which will gradually be transformed into the most beautiful garden you've ever seen.