Retired Tom prided himself on two things: his meticulously groomed prize-winning petunias and his utter inability to be on time. For his weekly bridge club, this was a constant source of amusement – and mild frustration. Every Tuesday, promptly at 2 pm, the other three members, Agnes, Mildred, and Bernard, would arrive, their teacups rattling in anticipation.
This Tuesday was no different. Agnes, a woman whose punctuality was as legendary as Tom’s lateness, tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the table. “Where’s that old rascal?” she huffed, peering through the lace curtains. Mildred, ever the optimist, chirped, “He’s probably just admiring his petunias! Those blooms are simply magnificent this year, aren’t they?”
Bernard, a man whose patience was thinner than a wisp of smoke, grumbled, “Magnificent? They’re weeds! He spends more time fussing over those flowers than he does on anything else. Including, you know, *being on time*.”
Suddenly, a frantic yell ripped through the air. “I’M HERE! I’M HERE!” Tom burst through the door, breathless and slightly disheveled. He was clutching a watering can – and a very large, very muddy, very disgruntled badger.
“Sorry I’m late,” Tom panted, placing the badger – who was now attempting to gnaw on Mildred’s handbag – on the floor. “Seems my prize-winning petunias had attracted an unexpected guest. And he put up quite the fight!” He winked. “Turns out, he’s a very punctual badger, and wouldn’t let me leave until precisely 2:17!”
