Here he is again in a sketch I did of this very interesting little corner of the patio where petunias tumble out of this ancient bird bath.
I used to spend hours here in the summer hitting a tennis ball relentlessly against the wall, talking to myself, making up stories and characters.
It was good practice for ball control especially as the bricks here are old and uneven and some even have beautiful carvings on them I presume done by previous inhabitants who I am dying to find out more about.
Ball play not so good when the ball bounced with an ominous, loud, hollow thud against the drawing room window and my Mother, reading inside, would screech and shake her fist at me.
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