Davina teams up with Saint Jude

I harbour a vague suspicion that she’s trying to do me in!

I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, but this is taking things too far. She’s almost always very pleasant toward me—perhaps this should’ve been my clue. Why would she suffer me in silence unless she wanted to lull me into a false sense of security—throw me off guard.

First she gets me over to England—onto her home ground—under the pretext of having me repair some windows in her London house. Then along comes Saint Jude—the worst storm to hit the country in eleven years.

This, of course was luck, pure luck…. but then a certain degree of luck is involved in every nefarious scheme.

Around seven in the morning, when Saint Jude was blasting hurricane-force winds across London, her ladyship looks out the back window and announces in plaintive tones that the cover is being torn off the bicycle—knowing full well that yours truly will spring to the rescue of the vehicle like a knight in shining armour…which of course he does.

Now the next bit takes a bit of explaining: I’m out there in the lashing wind and rain and I decide to move the bike closer to the house—a crucial element in her plan.

“How could she have anything to do with this decision of mine?” you might ask.

Arrow shows where the slate hit

“Simple,” I reply. “Telepathy.”

While I’m out there struggling in the storm, she’s mentally broadcasting through the window, “Move the bike… Move the bike… Move the bike…” Somehow the message filters through the glass and I move the bike.

As I bend over the front wheel tying down the cover there’s a loud CRASH beside me. A slate has been blown off the roof and come whizzing down two stories before shattering on a paving stone.

The gouge in the stone shows that it sliced down vertically—like the blade of a guillotine. Six inches further over and it would have been curtains for me.

Again you might wonder how she could have managed to get the slate to fall at that precise moment. A fair question. But I thought of that. Once I was in position she could have darted up to the attic and thumped on the roof with a broom handle to dislodge the slate. Not too much of a stretch.

Back in the house I blurted, “That thing almost got me.”

“How terrible,” she replied rather calmly. Then added softly to herself, “And the windows are only half done.”

Now there was a point—I hadn’t finished the windows. Perhaps it was just an accident. Nonetheless, I’m keeping a vigilant eye open.

Drat. Foiled again!

Davina