The Talking Frog

The Talking Frog

It was one of those sleepy afternoons, sunny and warm, and me wandering round the garden with my secateurs, cutting a twig here, pulling a weed there, not thinking about anything in particular.

The frog was on the path. There were always frogs, sitting about, waiting for me to dig out the pond that the previous owners had filled in. It was on my list of jobs to do, if ever I found myself with super-human energy, or twenty years younger without arthritis. This frog was different. For a start, it seemed to be sunning itself, something any normal frog wouldn’t consider sensible. Secondly, when my sleepy eyes focussed on it, it looked up at me with intelligent enquiry, summing me up in quite an unsettling way.

You’re going daft, I told myself, and went to walk past, but the frog took a few unhurried steps and blocked my path. Well, I could have stepped over it, but there was something about its air of assurance which made me hesitate to do so.

   “Hello,” it said.

   “Hello,” I said back, wondering if I had sunstroke or something much more serious. “Do you want me to kiss you, so you can turn into a handsome prince?”

Well, you never know your luck. I’d been on my own for ten years since my husband left me for a younger model, and a handsome prince would be one in the eye for that barstard, and a boost to my ego.

   “No,” it said. “Definitely not. Have you got a ratchet strap?”

Now, I’m not terribly useful when it comes to tools. The shed was my husband’s domain, but I had the key and could see no reason, as he’d left me everything, out of lack of interest rather than generosity, why I couldn’t give anything I wanted to any passing Tom, Dick or Frog.

I was by this time wondering what hallucinating a talking frog was a symptom of, but other than that, I seemed fine, all the bits that usually hurt, still hurt, so I was probably awake, and everything else seemed normal, keys in my shorts pocket and all.

I went over to the shed, unlocked it and rummaged around, spotted the ratchet strap, dragged it out and took it back to the path. I rested it down in front of the frog.

   “There you go,” I said.

   “Grab hold of that end will you?” said the frog, and dragged the strap over to a bulging sack which I hadn’t noticed lying behind the spirea, (just coming into flower, so pretty), slid it underneath with a few tugs, and flung the end over the bag, (which must have taken all its strength), and looked at me.

   “If you can just tighten the strap for me?” said the frog, “Thank you.”

   “What’s in the bag?” I asked. Well, it is my garden.

   “Slugs,” said the frog. “Cheers for the strap,” and he hooked the end of it onto the back of a very small (well, it would need to be) aeroplane which stood next to the hostas, jumped in, switched it on, and shot up into the air. The sack whooshed past my head close enough to stir my hair, and I jumped back. I stood and watched as the sack disappeared, like a lost balloon, over the apple trees and along the top of the hill.

Now I know what you’re going to say. I should have asked more questions, but as I said, it was one of those balmy afternoons, you know? But I certainly didn’t imagine it, because I had to get up in the night because the shed door was banging in the wind. I’d forgotten to lock it. Lucky nothing got nicked, wasn’t I?