Ponda and Mrs Ponda
I met Mrs Ponda again yesterday morning, except now I know that her real name is Mrs Benn. She lives in a beautiful old brick house at the top of Flemington Hill, and her front garden is full of old roses. Some of them have been there more than 30 years. She has neatly staked tomatoes at the side, and the inside of her house is full of art and fine things and books. Mr Ponda always had projects, she said. The garden, though, was her project. I also found out that Mr Ponda (Mr Benn actually) was also a keen photographer, like my husband, and so it seems we have quite a bit in common.
I have arranged to take Ponda for a walk with my dog Flash each school morning, and today was the first day. It went quite well once the dogs got over the excitement of being together. The main problem is that Ponda, who moves and looks like a barrel with legs, is accustomed to a certain route around the park, and won’t vary it. When I wanted to go our way he just stood there looking at me through rheumy eyes, until I caved in and followed him on his waddling way – up and back along the park, stop at the water bowl for a drink, then back the way we came. Flash coped quite well with the boredom considering.
All the other dog walkers in the park commented on seeing me with Ponda. They all knew Mr Benn. One had been to his funeral. Apparently Ponda had a lot of mentions, and a photo of Mr Benn hugging Ponda was on his coffin. I hope Ponda gets used to me. And I hope I can persuade him to change his route!