Can you make out this abomination from the photo? I upped the contrast as best I could, but if I find it hard to see I imagine you'll find it nearly impossible, which on the one hand is too bad because it is really ugly, and on the other just as well, because it is really ugly.
The ugly this I am referring to is a blockade the prince erected to thwart the postal persons who have worn a path across the ivy-covered front yard so he or she doesn't have to walk down the front walk, down the sidewalk and up the neighbor's front walk to deliver what's left of the daily mail -- usually a real estate postcard and a WETA fund raising letter.
It began mildly enough, with a polite request.
When that was ignored in went a spike-topped section of wrought iron fence, more a symbolic barrier, a gentle hint that this was not a path but a garden. Sadly, the hint was disregarded, so a length of chicken wire was stuck to the left of the bit of fence, striking a slightly more ominous note.
One day, to test it's efficacy, I kept an eye out for the mail truck then lurked downstairs until our little offerings were slipped through the door slot. Then I skittered to the curtain and caught the postwoman, ear glued to her cell phone, skirting the construct. Throwing open the door I flew out to the porch. "WHY? Are you crossing the yard?!" I yelled. "Don't you see that fence?"
"Nope," she shrugged and turned her back to continue both her conversation and the swift completion of her appointed rounds, which might or might not mean delivering the mail to the appropriate slot.
"Flowers!" I cried as she waltzed off. "Flowers are coming up--little buds you can scarcely see--and you're walking all over them." You would think this would touch her, but it didn't. I mean, girls, flowers, that sort of thing. It's interesting that I usually have more luck using this line with men who have the grace to look dismayed at hurting the bitty flowers with their big dumb feet.
With this latest affront, a length of RUSTY chicken wire was laid to the right of the bit of fence.
And yet, despite these ploys I just heard the booted crunch of our mistress of the post -- the women are the worst, the most vengeful -- skirting the newly enhanced barrier.
One might think we'd have long ago given up and laid a neat line of stepping stones across the yard. One might say this pile of junk that now greets visitors is worse than the sin of tromping on the ivy. One might. But there is a principle involved.
I am now thinking of laying a wire grid, something completely undetectable and irritatingly trippable across the ivy. Ha Ha. And if that doesn't work, land mines.