Frances is a groundhog. Well, actually, according to that link, she's a badger, but I think she's a groundhog, unless that's a badger and not a groundhog after all who is living under my shed, because it looks rather a lot like Frances. However, as far as I know, badgers are one of those British things like tea and hedgehogs, right? We don't have them except in ancient children's books? They're un-American? Hmmm.
Yesterday I told my groundhog story to any number of people, including my mother. The response was gratifying from everyone, since mostly everybody laughs helplessly when I get to the part about the eeeeeeescreeeaaakkkkk noises and pantomime myself screaming with a broomstick and, fortunately, I mostly like being laughed at, so that was all good. My mother, though - ah, only my mother - wiped the tears from her eyes when I told her how I had insulted the groundhog at the end and called him stupid.
"Oh dear," she said firmly, "That wasn't very nice, dear. You shouldn't have said THAT."
I may be the only person in the whole world who has ever been reprimanded by their parent for being rude to a groundhog.
Oh and hey, my computer is still in the shop, so, um, no posts this weekend unless I can bring myself to dive into the fresh hell that is Charter Communications Technical Support and thereby manage to get my old computer (the one that makes the worrisome whoooga-whoooga noise whenever it's turned on) online. We will all have to struggle through it somehow.