We're having our back garden redesigned by a fabulous bloke by the name of Roger who has been doing a tremendous job transforming our dead, dirty and uninspired space into a kiddie (and adult) paradise.
I'm talking cubby house, a 'stage' for performing, garden beds high enough to balance on but not high enough to fall and break little bones, flower beds, veggie patches and big beautiful spaces to run and be crazy (as kids are wont to do).
Anyway, I digress.
Most days I wander out for a chat. He is a very interesting man and sometimes I have had enough of talking about fairies and poos and painting with the Blonde Bombshell.
Today as the girls scampered around the garden watering what plants remain (and the plastic grass and themselves and the mud) Roger leaned on his compacter, looked directly at me and asked:
'So, are you from around here then?'
'Sure,' I said. 'My folks live in the suburbs a bit north of here.'
'But you're from the country right?'
Now I should state that I am a city girl. Born and bred. Raised in the 'burbs, private schooled, university educated [not that country people aren't any of these things].
'No,' I finally said. 'Do I strike you as being from the country?'
He shrugged. 'You just seem too sensible to be from the city.'
I was actually quite chuffed, not only for all the country people who are apparently quite sensible, but also for me, that someone (who has been privvy to all the madness and screaming and tantrums going on inside my house over the past few weeks) thinks I am sensible.
On his return from work this evening, I told this little story to Mr Scornful and asked him if he thought I was sensible.
Something approximating 'hummph'. It's possible he even chuckled.
What would he know?