The Saga of Larry the Lounge Lizard, Continued

Posted by powachair
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on Friday, 16 April 2010
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The Saga of Larry the Lounge Lizard, Continued

 

What a week of revelation this has been. I now know that I am not the only reptile challenged person in the family. Herpetophobia is alive and well and living in my family. I must say at this stage that my “healthy respect” for all things reptilian, is just that! Respect. Unlike others in my family, I don’t become a gibbering wreck, even though I might scream like a girl, when any reptile touches my person.

 

On Saturday I was sitting at the bottom of the garden, near the rock garden, which is the  abode of a young lizard family, chatting to the young Angolan man, Booby (I kid you not, that is his name), who helps me maintain some semblance of order in my garden since I joined the Powachair brigade. Booby hails from Angola and from what I can understand through his thick accent, is that his mother gave him the name. I might be spelling it incorrectly but he answers to the name anyway. Anyhow, Booby was busy pulling weeds and edging the grass around the rock garden when he yelped and swatted with the spade. I thought he had suddenly gone berserk, from too much sun, but he was intent on smashing one particular rock into pebbles. Once I had managed to calm him down, I asked what his problem with the stone was. He mouthed curses and blurted something like fffffkin schnake and retreated twenty paces. Well, having so much respect for reptiles myself, I kept my wheelchair in fifth gear ready for a quick get away, and crept forward to see this schnake. All I could see was a battered lizard’s tail lying amongst the ruins of a once pretty rock. I didn’t know who’s tail it was, until yesterday, when I saw Larry the lounge lizard creep nervously out onto his favourite sunning rock minus his tail. I think the other two members of Larry’s family are slimmer and therefore more agile than him, thus missing the onslaught from Booby and his spade, and escaping serious injury. No amount of cajoling or threats could get Booby within five paces of the rock pile again that day, and I have fears of having three foot high grass around the rock pile for the foreseeable future.

 

Since my daughter and her husband have moved into our house all of the shrubs have been trimmed to about two feet off the ground. I was told that this would make for easier maintenance, which I believed, until a few days ago.

We live opposite a primary school, so there is fairly heavy traffic early in the morning when parents drop off children and residents leave for work. My son in law was pulling out of the driveway when he suddenly opened his door and jumped out dancing a jig while slapping wildly at his stomach in between ripping his shirt and vest off in front of all the children and parents. Thank goodness it had not wriggled in his pants, or he would have been attacked by angry mothers for exposing his jocks to the children. He eventually succeeded in dislodging the “thing” that had been crawling around in his shirt, which turned out to be Coffee Lizard, Larry’s son, who scuttled off into his family rock pile, while my daughter was trying to pacify her husband, who had turned three shades lighter and was staring around with a wild look on his face. How Coffee had got inside his shirt is anybody’s guess but I think he had probably gone exploring and somehow managed to find his way into the car and then onto the seat. Son in law wears his shirt hanging out so access would have been fairly easy.

Again, as with Booby there was no way he would get back into his car without it being thoroughly inspected for ferocious man slaying lizards. I lent him my car while promising to have the car searched before his return.

 

I will have to have a serious talk with Lizzy and Larry as well as the adventurous Coffee to prevent any further recurrences. I don’t think they realize what havoc they are causing in my family. Needless to say I am glad that these two strong young men have been forced out of the lizard closet and can no longer call me a wet, chicken, wimp or woos, without doing serious damage to their own images, should I disclose their names, and where they live. Let them be warned.

 

 

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