Over There . . .

So there we were, Jools and I, down by the side of the lake. Doing nothing, watching birds casually swooping across the water, butterflies fluttering hypnotically over almost-dead bullrushes, and a big red dog charging after a small ball with the manic, slathering, determination only ever manifested by large dogs and small boys.

Suddenly, Jools shouts . . . "Over there, over there . . ."

I raise my camera, blast a quick sequence of shots in her pointing direction . . .

She stops, fixes me with the icy glare that halts rampaging animals and naughty boys in their tracks. And says, "What are you looking at me for, you idiot? It was over there. And now it's gone . . . !"

What it was I don't know; she refused to tell . . .