Who’ll Be My Ishmael?

We’ve been at my mum’s today doing bits and bobs of things and working through an eclectic mix of jobs and factoids that she had randomly written on a small piece of paper.

I’ve put batteries in things that didn’t need the batteries changing and just plain don’t work, I’ve discussed the intricacies of paying for Grandma’s care home and I’ve dabbled with the first stage of cleaning the pond.

I thought, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to be doing the pond today, that I would make a start on it by removing the rocks which make up the water feature and putting them to one side. This would then mean that bailing out the pond water would be a doddle, and therefore everything else would run smoothly.

And then I found the frogs. There are at least two. There may be more. It’s impossible to tell because the pond is an amazing shade of witchy green that hides the frogs incredibly well.

But when I found them it then meant I couldn’t remove the rocks as I’d planned because they’d have nothing to crawl out onto when they’re just sick to the back teeth of swimming around. I had to put some of the rocks back to form a little shelter for them out of the sun and what-have-you.

There are a couple of things, now, that this means for the pond.

The likelihood that the pump no longer functions because the filter is clogged with frog bits has increased somewhat. It was only a joke before. Hahaha, we said, imagine if it started spraying frogs out of the top like the water features in the house that Claire and Cam renovate in Modern Family that start firing goldfish. And now it’s all too easy to imagine.

Secondly, I have to change my pond plan. I’m going to have to check the pond for frogs at each stage of the emptying process. I’m going to need a bucket for the little fellas to go in before I can rehome them in a clean pond.

But that means I have to catch the slippery little sods first. And I don’t even know for definite that they’ll be there, but I equally don’t want to drive them out of their home. That they may or may not live in and might actually just come to visit every now and again and hang out under the stones.

These frogs might become my white whale.

I’ll just be at the edge of the pond, as madness sets in, muttering about trying to catch them..