Children.

I like to think I am a fairly reasonable guy. The type who will fix broken things, or lend you a stapler. Friendly, approachable, cheerful - the type, in fact, who will not cause people to recoil in fear when he walks past.

Apparently this opinion is not shared by everybody.

I had washing on the line – nothing cleans a sheet quite so well as an afternoon in the sunshine and a good breeze – and wondered down to the plot to take it down before the clouds moved in and gave us drizzle in place of sun. When I got there, I discovered that the laundry and peg baskets were nowhere to be found, so turned to hunt for them at the house. At this point I heard a hushed voice – “look, it’s a man”. The noise came from approximately three feet up a hedge – neglecting the discovery of bogles, brownies or hobbits in my neighbourhood, I thought that there were kids in the alleyways again (if you heard me say that with the same tone as ‘rats in the walls’ it was not intended – I was aiming for ‘meercats in the ceiling’ – good in theory, messy and irritating in practice) and decided to ignore them.

I have found that if you talk to the kids around here, they have a habit of remembering you and coming back to talk some more. Crossing the alleyway, I heard some more discussion (“Have you seen the scarecrow?) and wondered back up towards the house, pondering the sudden Dadaist urge I felt in the back of my mind to fetch the hose and turn it on them, riot-style (look, I am a nice person, honest). I found the basket (my brother had been using it to clean lugworm off his fingers – don't ask) and after ensuring it was free from traces of invertebrate I walked down the garden again, enjoying the waning sunshine, the raucous birdsong and the breeze carrying the last of the cherry blossom.

There were three kids at the gate to the plot, standing on tiptoe, craning their heads over the blue-painted gate my brother made last summer, discussing with an air of authority the merits of my scarecrow, Douglas – looking a little worse for wear these days I’m sorry to say.

I wasn't entirely sure how to act. Clearing my throat slightly, I spoke up. “Er…sorry guys, could I get past?".

I might as well have said “Freeze!” or “Reach for the sky!” or – my personal favourite, one popularised by the RCMP – “Be still…or die!” - come to think of it I should have, it would have been a lot of fun. The kids (none of whom could have been older than six) span around with shocked and panicked expressions on their faces.

“Ah!” yelped the girl with red hair.

“Oh no!” cried the blonde five year old.

“Scatter!” ordered the third.

And they did – two one way, a third the opposite direction. Apparently I am this scary.

I will never understand children – not if I live to be two hundred.

Happy Easter.