No More Nude Dancing

"You might wanna take your clothes off."

I wrapped my dressing-gown tighter around me and squinted at the yellow blob the sentence appeared to have come from. I didn't really know what to make of that offer, especially given that without my glasses on I couldn't work out if I was being leered at or not. Hell, it was 7:30am - I wasn't sure if I was ALIVE or not. I'd been flouncing around in my bedroom pre-shower when a fluorescent vest had walked past the window. Ladies, when workmen catch you unawares, stop, drop and roll. I'd just made it back into the bathroom on my elbows to retrieve my wrap when the doorbell rang.

The yellow blob had company - a smaller, dirtier yellow blob behind him and an orange blob hovering by the fence. A large green blur was parked next to what I could only assume were still the front stairs. The silence was obviously getting a bit tedious, so the yellow blur laughed and broke it.

"Off the washing line, I mean."

Ah. They'd come about the trees. (I HATE our real estate agents.) The green blur turned out to be one of those adorable mini backhoe things, and a ravenous one at that - by the time I came out of the shower it had eaten most of the backyard. This was indeed a glorious sight. Gone are the palms that dropped nuts on our washing and had the Hills hoist penned in, preventing it from spinning in the breeze (and us getting drunk and swinging on it). Gone are those odd not-quite-bush things that spread like a virus towards the neighbours, reawakened by my early attempt at pruning the buggers. Sadly for Ziggy (but in a great step forward for neighbourhood peace), gone is the tangle of weeds from which he launched strike attacks at the dog over the back. Sadly for the neighbours, they've also taken the bushes along the fenceline which shield my bedroom windows from public view. Note to self: no more nude dancing.