The Posh Paw Blog

There are certain things that should never be attempted on an Easter weekend.

One: boiling six eggs in the same pan as a novelty chocolate bunny (don’t ask).

Two: trusting my Dad and Frank with anything that comes in more than three pieces and requires “light assembly.”

So there we were, midday Saturday, in what Mum referred to as “A carefully curated garden environment,” surrounded by three flapping tent panels, two incomplete instructions, and one highly suspicious pouch of bolts that had mysteriously not made it home from Peterborough.

“Relax,” Dad said, with the same misplaced confidence that precedes every domestic disaster. “We’ll improvise.”

Frank opened Eleanor’s back doors like they were the gates to Narnia, reached into his old battered toolbox and pulled out a random assortment of screws, wires, and what looked like a spark plug.

Mum stood on the patio, arms folded, lips pursed so tight I swear I could hear the vacuum seal.

“This was supposed to be up and decorated by now,” she said.

“Give us ten minutes,” Frank shouted.

“You said that twenty minutes ago,” she snapped back.

Then Dad interfered, ”Well then, give us a hand here!”

I sat on the steps with a cup of tea, observing the chaos unfold. Dad and Frank had gone full tilt into trouble now — sleeves rolled, sunglasses on (don’t ask me why), and muttering like two World War 2 codebreakers. They’d somehow roped me in to “just hold this corner for a sec” which, twenty minutes later, meant I was half tangled in canvas and contemplating my life choices.

Then, of course, came Gerald.

Gerald lives two doors down. He’s the sort of man who trims his lawn with nail scissors and keeps a laminated spreadsheet of bin collection days. He also once filed a complaint about wind chimes.

He peered over the fence with the cautious disdain of someone who’d just discovered a misplaced recycling bin.

“Ahem,” he said, adjusting his cardigan like a courtroom robe. “I do believe any semi-permanent structure erected within three metres of a boundary requires a council permit.”

Mum turned, sweet smile on, but her eyes were absolute fire. “It’s a temporary Easter arrangement, Gerald. Not a helipad.”

Dad waved from under the half-assembled frame. “Morning, Gerald! Fancy giving us a hand?”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering,” Gerald replied, stepping back precisely one pace, “but I will document the proceedings in my logbook.”

Frank muttered, half under his breath as he wrangled with a rogue tent pole, “The Neighbourhood Police is something to be…”

And then came the wind.

Just a little at first — enough to flap one corner of the tent. Then another. Then, as if the heavens themselves disapproved of DIY, a great gust swept through like the breath of God and lifted the entire structure into what I can only describe as a canvas tornado.

Dad shouted. Frank dove. Mum screamed “Not the tulips!”

I let go and backed away slowly, like someone leaving a crime scene.

From under the flapping chaos, Frank’s voice bellowed ”That’s it! I am not gonna take it anymore!”

A pause. A rustle.

“Say you want a revolution?” I replied, Frank gave a slow thumbs up through the rubble that once was the canvas, as I cracked a cold one open and placed it in his hand.

Gerald tutted loudly from the other side of the fence. “This will all go in the report.”

Somewhere behind the garden, I could hear church bells starting up for the Easter vigil.

Honestly, I think we needed more than bells. We needed divine intervention.

Or, at the very least, duct tape.