We live in a flying toy zone! Behind us is a day care centre, and one neighbour is a keen cricketer. This means that it is sometimes a hard-hat area in our back yard.
We think that one of the day-care denizens must be practicing for the Olympics. We call him (note the sexism) Chucker. Toys come flying over, raining down on us. Bricks, blocks, balls. Thomas the Tank Engine plastic toys. Buckets and spades. Lego and plastic bowls. We hope they don't land on Portia, who likes to sun herself in the garden and doesn't move very fast. One day our cleaner, Gladys, came rushing through the house...."Kate Kate, Chucker has outdone himself!'' Sure enough, there were seven toys that had come over in a very short time. We usually wait until all is quiet over there, then assume our identity as the Secret Chucker in reverse.
Geordie, the keen cricketer, is fond of batting tennis balls over. We often hear the thud as they land on the roof, or in the garden. He and his mates come to the door, and we search for the balls. Sometimes we find three or four, and chuck them over his way. They can land in the gutters, or in the side lane, or anywhere in the garden. Their garden also backs onto the day care centre, and they too experience the overflow. They have confessed that sometimes they keep the good balls.
Today as I was walking Jonty on his 4 pm walk around the front of the day care centre, a tennis ball came flying over - I didn't see where it came from. With an audience of small boys, I reached into the drain and retrieved the ball. Over to the boys. "Is this yours?" I asked, handing it to one of them. His eyes lit up as he took the ball, and said "No, it isn't." Well, it WAS his by now. One of the other boys said it had come flying over the house.
Was the ball Geordie's? Is it justice that sometimes the balls go flying in the other direction? Does it all even out in the long run?